


maybe you’re dreaming you’re in love with me.

by cumpeachx, ohyellowbird



Series: maybe you're dreaming [1]
Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Charmie endgame, Cheating, Drinking, Fist Fights, Humor, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Relationships, drummer!armie, tattooed!armie, the 1975, timmy has a boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-02-15 23:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 91,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18679174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumpeachx/pseuds/cumpeachx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: Timothée Chalamet has never met the infamous Armie Hammer, who just moved back home to L.A to drum for their mutual friend's band. Until now.(a fic series based on song lyrics by The 1975)





	1. sex

**Author's Note:**

> hello everyone! we have decided to write an au together. :)  
> the entire fic will be set in the same universe and happen chronologically. each chapter is going to be inspired by a different set of lyrics by the band The 1975 (which means a lot of sadness is in store, sorry!) but you definitely do not have to be familiar with the 1975 to read!  
> each chapter will just be based on a few lyrics from a song.  
> armie is 28 and timmy is 23 in this, FYI.  
> fictional, etc.  
> DISCLAIMER: even though there is drug use in this fic, nobody is going to die of an overdose or anything like that.

Someone is playing a guitar plugged into an old, crackling amp in the front room. Timmy stumbles through the scene, pinballing between bodies on his way to the kitchen. His beer grazes an arm, foaming over.

“Dude!” Dakota turns to glare, but her expression melts when she recognizes him as the offender. “Timmy, you ass.”

Timmy shrugs his apology, grinning wide, and slinks into the hall with his middle finger held upside down behind his head as Dakota’s laugh echoes.

“Excuuuuse me,” Timmy hums as he slides down the narrow hall, brushing past a couple making out against the wall. Timmy eyes them up and down, biting his lip when he notices the guy’s hand has disappeared between the girl’s thighs, up her skirt. Timmy tips his beer can against his lips, takes a drag, and looks over his shoulder at the couple once more with a quirked eyebrow and a grin before turning the corner.

He bangs his fist against the bathroom door, a paint chip pulling away with his hand and waits a tick before turning the handle and pushing it open.

“Oh, fuck. Sorry dude,” Timmy winces, but amusement and curiosity flush his cheeks when he realizes who’s currently taking a piss. He stands in the doorway, lingering on his toes, unsure of what he’s expecting to happen by just standing there but also unwilling to move.

The guy seems nonplussed, glancing over his shoulder briefly. He simply shrugs. “Almost done.”

Timmy teeters on his heels, watching.

He’s been thoroughly transfixed since the show tonight, but seeing Armie up close now is different — everyone looks bigger on a stage but Armie really is fucking huge. And sure, there’s plenty of tall guys in the world, but there’s something about the way Armie holds himself that makes him bigger than anyone he’s ever laid eyes on.

Timmy feels flustered now, looking over Armie’s broad shoulders, down his muscled arms, which he’d watched in awe during the set. Drummer’s arms. Armie’s shaved head makes him look intimidating, even from behind, but Timmy likes the lurching adrenaline that it ignites in his belly.

 _Armie, Armiiiee._ Timmy repeats his name a few times in his head, his lips forming the syllables like a rehearsal, though he’s not sure what he’s practicing for. They’ve never met, but Timmy’s heard plenty about Armie through their mutual friends.

Armie flushes the toilet and by the time Timmy hears a _zip_ , he averts his eyes up towards the ceiling and throws back the rest of his PBR.

“It’s all yours,” Armie says with a wave of his hand, walking to the sink to run water over his fingers. Timmy steps in, shutting the door behind him, sets his empty beer bottle down then takes a piss. He looks over his shoulder while Armie lingers. Timmy finishes with a flush, stuffing his cock back into his jeans and zipping them up mid-turn. Armie is leaning back against the sink, about to light a cigarette, watching him.

“Open that window for me?” Armie nods over the toilet to the small window. Timmy reaches and slides it open.

“You know there’s a patio in the backyard where you can smoke.” Timmy moves to the sink, but Armie doesn’t shift over so he just shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Oh yeah?” Armie smirks, his tone patronizing. He flicks a blue lighter in his hand and lights his cigarette, taking a long inhale before lowering his shoulders as the smoke drifts out his nose. “But then I’d have to make conversation with all the assholes out there.”

“Fair point.” Timmy moves towards the door but Armie waves a hand to stop him.

“You know Dakota?”

Timmy nods and Armie seems satisfied with his response. He tells Timmy to hold his cigarette, so he does, taking a drag just because he’s drunk and wants to put his mouth somewhere Armie’s has been, and watches with mild curiosity while he searches the bathroom.

“I know she keeps the good shit in here somewhere,” Armie mumbles from behind the medicine cabinet door. He takes the cigarette back from Timmy, drags, exhales, winks, then hands it back before continuing his search.

“Fuck. Yes.” Armie lifts a ceramic mermaid on the shelf by the shower and the head comes off, revealing a small baggie with white powder.

“You cool?”

Timmy nods, at the baggie and then again, sheepishly, at Armie. They convene at the tiny sink pedestal and Armie eases a few bumps out onto the countertop, fishing a Subway gift card out of his wallet to cut them into one skinny line. He has long, calloused fingers with bitten nails but they make quick work of the little mound, his movements practiced. Graceful in some twisted way.

Outside the bathroom door, someone is yelling. They both turn their heads away from the task at hand to listen, but it dissolves into laughter before either of them move for the handle to intervene.

Their attention swivels back, Armie to the lines and Timmy to Armie’s profile. He is a walking contradiction. Abercrombie good looks undermined by a cheap buzz cut and bad tattoos. The unusual combination fizzes under Timmy’s skin.

“Do you have a dollar?”

Timmy tilts his head, the light bulb taking longer to blink on than he’d like to admit. “Oh, duh,” he giggles, puts out the cigarette, then pulls out a wrinkled One. It makes for a shitty straw, but Timmy hands it over and Armie rolls it anyway. Then he hands it back.

“Ladies first.”

Timmy frowns at him, unamused, but it’s hidden by his hair as he folds over to snort the first half of the line. Armie’s eyes are on him in the mirror.

He hasn’t done this in a hot minute, but would wager that that’s not the reason for the butterfly-sized bats swooping through him right now. Loathe to self-analyze, he squares his shoulders and takes his half of the line.

Armie is going down as he comes up, their fingers brushing on the dollar trade off. Armie does the rest of the line with no preamble. The way someone might take their daily vitamins. Then he’s straightening back up into Timmy’s space and suddenly it feels as though the bathroom’s gotten smaller; maybe Timmy’s gotten smaller.

He closes his eyes, briefly overwhelmed by the moment. He leans his head back towards the ceiling, shutting his brain down and lets himself just _feel_ for a second. It’ll take a few minutes but the adrenaline is raw and eager, his body already starting to float.

When Timmy opens his eyes again Armie is holding his thumb out in offering between them. He’s run it over the gift card to collect the leftover residue.

“Open up,” he says, and Timmy can’t help but imagine a different context for those same words. Still watching Armie, he drops his jaw and leans forward, crossing a line he will one day look back on as defining _before_ and _after_ in his life.

At the moment, however, it is only too easy to traverse.

Armie’s eyes are crystal blue when he slips his thumb underneath Timmy’s upper lip, sweeping it over his gums. They are decidedly darker when Timmy swallows down the bitter taste, suppressing a shiver, and closes his lips around it.

Timmy’s eyes challenge Armie as he drags his tongue under his thumb, biting gently on the base, sucking around the salty digit, the taste mixing with the drip of cocaine that’s still making its way down the back of his throat. He pulls, gently at first, a smile pinching at the corners of his mouth when Armie growls, then hollows his cheeks and sucks harder.

“Well, fuck me,” Armie muses, pulling his wet thumb out of Timmy’s mouth, swiping it once more over the card before running it past his own gums. Timmy thinks about his spit around Armie’s thumb, about their saliva being mingled together now.

They stare at each other, pupils gradually dilating from arousal and intoxication. Timmy can’t tell what feels better; the drugs igniting the dopamine in his brain or Armie’s eyes eating him alive.

“What’s your name?” Armie asks, shoving the baggie and card into his wallet, then his back pocket.

“Timothée.”

“ _Fuck_ — okay,” Armie huffs through his nose, pinching the bridge before sucking his bottom lip thoughtfully, smiling between the ridges.

“Armie,” he introduces himself. Timmy decides to act surprised, like he isn’t dying to say his name aloud. Like his lips haven’t practiced having it on them already.

Someone is banging against the bathroom door now, shaking the handle. Timmy can’t take his eyes off Armie and when he moves to reach around his waist to open the door, Timmy leans in, mouth open, grazing his lips over Armie’s chin.

Armie dips lower, inhaling as Timmy exhales. He doesn’t think to apologize for misinterpreting Armie’s movements because he really doesn’t fucking care.

“Yeah?” Timmy asks, uncertain of the question but Armie can take it however he wants. Armie answers by cupping both hands around his jaw and pulling him in for a kiss, but before their lips fully touch the last ounce of Timmy’s fleeting morality surges forward.

“I have a boyfriend,” he offers pathetically. Armie hums, tilting his head to drag his nose along Timmy’s cheek, over to his ear.

He repeats back Timmy’s question. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

When Armie finally pulls back Timmy locks his arms around his neck and clashes their mouths together before he can talk himself out of it, teeth clacking, his tongue sliding over plump lips. Unforgettable, even in the haze of alcohol and substance.

Armie kisses like a man starved, which can’t be possible; Timmy doesn’t let his mind wander to the number of nights Armie must have had end like this. He instead basks in the way Armie bites at his mouth, coaxing it open for his tongue to push inside.

Timmy licks a slow circle around the inside of Armie’s mouth, trying to commit his taste to memory. The smack of their lips is lewd and so damn hot. Timmy fucking loves it, doesn’t want it to end, so he kisses harder, louder but Armie shifts. Timmy whines in protest, his mouth chasing after Armie’s who is now dragging his lips across his throat, nipping gently at his skin.

Timmy runs a hand down Armie’s back, over the curve of his ass, his own hips pushing forward in a heady attempt to feel if their cocks are mutually hard. They are, and he gets understandably distracted by the handful of Armie’s ass and the growl against his neck, licking over his skin, and sharp teeth biting his earlobe.

The door behind him opens and together they spill through it into the hall, only for Armie to kick open the bedroom door opposite.

Timmy hesitates. If he looks to the right he’d see that the after party is still in full swing. Everyone is either huddled in corners making out or singing along to The White Stripes song blaring over the sound system.

“Wait — isn’t this Dakota’s room?” he questions softly, half-hearted eyes scanning the messy room. He sees a makeshift bed and pillows on the floor, some luggage in the corner, a tattered backpack with drumsticks sticking out. “She’ll be pissed if we —”

Armie yanks him forward by his belt loops. “Does it matter?”

Timmy can feel the curve of Armie’s lips against the veins in his throat and can’t help but to try to imagine how they’d feel around his cock. He shakes his head, allowing himself to be pulled along until they’re both falling into the actual bed by the window.

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” Armie cants, his hands on every inch of Timmy’s skin he can find. Armie feels like warm cotton under his palms. His fingers are aching to get rough, to scrape his fingernails down Armie’s back, over his broad shoulders, down to his ridiculous ass. He indulges, shoving a hand under the backside of Armie’s jeans.

“Your ass is amazing,” Timmy purrs, fingers kneading into firm flesh. Armie’s ass is a literal handful, jesus-fucking-christ. Armie ruts forward, sending electric currents through Timmy’s groin, pleasure coiling tighter in his belly.

“Is that so?” Armie asks breathlessly, pulling back and undoing his jeans to give Timmy room to slide his hand down further. He does, massaging dense meat while his hips writhe helplessly. Armie peels open his jeans as well.

“Hell yeah,” Timmy answers in approval, eyes closing in desperation but for what, he doesn’t know. Anything. Everything. Armie.

Timmy feels the warmth of Armie’s hand slide down the inside of his jeans and underwear, until rough, long fingers curl boldly around his blood-warm cock.

“Wanna fuck me, pretty boy?”

It’s like cold water has been thrown over him.

Timmy gasps, at the stroke around his dick, at the heady words in his ear, at this goddamn situation he’s gotten himself into. He wiggles out from under Armie, pushing hard against his shoulders until he’s freed from his body weight and can breathe again.

“Fuck. I fucked up, I can’t do this.” Timmy sits up and Armie swallows in frustration.

“What the--? Why?”

“You know why.” Timmy slides off the bed, still catching his breath. He pushes his hair back, fingers catching in the tangles that had been caught against the mattress. He leans forward to pull his Vans back on. “I gotta go.”

“Where?” Armie asks, his fingertip running down the bumps of Timmy’s spine through his thin white T-shirt.

“Home.” Timmy stands up, adjusts his cock so that it’s angled up into his waistband, struggles to zip up his jeans. Armie looks really fucking proud of himself, despite the fact they’d only made out and Timmy rolls his eyes.

“To your boyfriend.”

“Yes.”

“Mmm.” Armie rolls onto his back, stretching his arms over his head. His jeans are still hanging low, a soft plush of pubes peeking from his gaping fly. No underwear. He closes his eyes and Timmy just watches him curiously, eyes burning, head spinning. Fuck, he is so hot.

Armie folds an arm under his head, still humming, licking his kiss-swollen lips. Timmy feels flushed, imagining that Armie is thinking about him, naked, bent over, or maybe sucking his cock. He frowns, guilt pinching his neck to look away from temptation.

“Well, I hope he enjoys how hard and wet I got you for him.”

Armie never opens his eyes and Timmy slams the door when he leaves.

-

**_now we are on the bed in my room_ **

**_and I'm about to fill his shoes_ **

**_but you say no_ **

**_he's got a boyfriend anyway_ **


	2. fallingforyou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! have another chapter.  
> we're having (maybe?) too much fun with this.  
> also, we recommend you to check out the songs as we post each chapter, especially if you aren’t familiar with the 1975’s music because...i mean, just do it.  
> fictional. etc etc

Armie’s first post-makeout encounter with Timmy happens at the grocery store of all places.

He is sat on a curb outside the sliding doors of Whole Foods, wearing a black apron and staring down into his phone. Armie clocks his inky nest of curls, which are maintained by the firm push of a black headband, from the parking lot and automatically turns away, looking for an alternate entrance. He’s here doing Dakota a favor, grabbing a few things for the house: salmon, oatmeal, apples, beer, but his generosity has a limit. And it is curled up fifty feet away, looking haughty and bored and chewing on a cheese stick.

Armie reconsiders his approach for a split second but it’s too late. Unless he wants to throw himself under the nearest moving vehicle--and it’s not a bad impulse per se--there is no escape. Timmy’s chin lifts and he spots Armie coming up the parking aisle. His face does a complicated maneuver before settling.

“Hi.”

Armie doesn’t come to a stop until he’s towering over Timmy, his black boots dwarfing Timmy’s sneakers. “You work here?”

Timmy swallows a hunk of cheddar and shades his eyes with one hand, squinting up at Armie standing over him. “I’m on my lunch.”

The smell of flowers is cloying and overpowering. Timmy is positioned amongst the assortment of fresh bouquets and potted plants. An orchid cranes over his shoulder. A bumblebee floats past his knee.

Armie looks around. “That’s cool.” His hands feed themselves into his pockets.

“Yup.”

Awkwardness is a wave. It climbs and climbs, like the pink in Timmy’s cheeks, but Armie rides it out.

“So, Dakota’s party...that was fun.”

Another wave crests and then crashes, soaking them both, but Armie’s always found the anticipation of something the worst part. He relaxes by degrees. Speaking on the elephant in the room has the opposite effect on Timmy, however.

Suddenly huffy, he pushes up onto his feet, saying, “Break’s almost over,” by way of explanation. It’s disappointing but endearing how he shuffles. Armie nods, stepping back to let him pass, raising an eyebrow when he lingers.

Jesus, he is really cute. Armie’s booze-soaked brain hadn’t been exaggerating. With a face straight out of a magazine and long, poetic limbs, he is an irritatingly effortless beauty in a work apron. Who looks that good in a fucking _apron?_

Timmy catches him mid-appraisal and Armie’s eyebrow quirks as his eyes glide over his nametag. _Timothée._ Right. How could he forget?

Timmy’s jaw shifts uncomfortably. “Hey, uh.” He wets his mouth, unsure, “About that...please don’t mention it to anybody. I was a fucking idiot.”

Armie buries the unexpected twinge that unbalances him and fits his lips around a hundred watt smile, lifting his hand to stop Timmy’s self-deprecating babble. “Mention what?” he shrugs and with an ironic salute, leaves Timmy behind, entering the store.

—

This wasn’t the first time a hookup had ended in regret, not by a longshot. And previously, it never bothered him--people are little more than warm bodies, his emotional use for them starting and ending with a necessity to fulfill one of his most basic needs.

But hours after running into Timmy at the store, Armie is still bumping up against their short-lived conversation, unable to stop himself from cycling through the encounter, replaying it over and over again.

He shakes off the image of Timmy peering up at him while he’s dumping a bag of apples into the refrigerator drawer at home, only for it to be replaced with a hazy still from the weekend, Timmy’s bedroom eyes and his mouth around Armie’s thumb.

Armie tries to think back on the last time he’s been this affected by another person. There had been plenty of good cock and pussy in Washington; he certainly wasn’t deprived. There were a few fucks worth repeating, and even a chick he hadn’t minded spending a bit of time with afterward. But the excitement from that fizzled almost as quickly as the desire to fuck her in the first place.

Out of everything though, in all his time in Washington, and maybe even before, nothing and no one had sparked him like the move Timmy pulled in the bathroom.

Even though he can’t really put his finger on why.

Armie doesn’t get a mental break from thinking about Timmy, his mouth, the velvet warmth of his cock that he’d only felt for half a second, his stony request until later at band practice. Once he’s sitting at his kit, everything that isn’t music-related blissfully melts away.

Playing with Dev and Dakota again is like riding a bike. He skins his knees a few times, stumbling through songs, but they each come back to him quickly enough. Dakota queues him for when to start, twisting back while her fingers lick over guitar strings to nod. Then, from there, it’s easy.

In the blink of an eye, three hours have passed.

Armie pulls his shirt over his head, using it to wipe the excess sweat from his neck and chest. Summer is bearing down with its full weight and even though the sun has long since disappeared below the horizon, the rented warehouse space where they’re practicing today is still oppressively warm. Slow cooking them while they worked out a new song.

He stands up behind his drum kit and spans his arms out wide, rotating his neck muscles, adjusting the black gym shorts that have ridden up his thighs. A splintered stick tumbles across the head of his snare.

Stretched, Armie walks over to the small cooler that Dev always brings along to practice. He scoffs when he sees what’s inside but shoves his hand into the ice regardless.

“Can’t you buy some real fucking beer, Dev?” he groans, lifting the freezing can of Coor’s Light and running it over his fevered, flushed skin.

“Bitching and moaning. Is that all you do, Hammer?” Dev parries cheekily, divesting himself of his bass. He sets it on the table over by where Dakota is scrolling through missed texts on her phone; any time that they aren’t actively practicing, she is generally ignoring them.

“That — and _your mother_ ,” Armie’s quips with a wink, lips curling into a wry, arrogant smile. He clicks the tab of the beer open and chugs the entire can down in three long drags while Dev lovingly explains in detail how much of an asshole he is.

“I second that,” Dakota offers without looking up, gesturing around Dev’s entire argument. Armie shrugs them off and throws his empty can back into the cooler before grabbing another, opening it on the way back to his set. He takes a seat, pulling down another mouthful before swallowing and slow-blowing all the air out of his lungs.

They fall into amiable silence for a minute or two. Someone is running a power saw in the next building over. Ranchera music sifts in through the grimy, popped windows, drifting down the block from the taco shop around the corner.

“Feels weird to be home,” Armie says, breaking them out of stasis eventually. His head tilts back between his shoulders, muscles shifting, vertebrae cracking. “Almost like nothing’s changed.” He looks back up. “Especially you two fuckers.”

Dakota and Dev make amused sounds of commiseration and settle closer, Dakota propping herself against a wall of acoustic panels, crossing her blue jumpsuit-clad legs ankle over ankle. Dev pulls over a wooden stool left behind by the previous renter.

Armie eyes them with thinly-veiled fondness, his gaze travelling then to their equipment, reading over stickers he remembers slapping on their speakers in high school. “Same crowd at our reunion show as the old days. Same crowd at your house too.”

Dakota thinks about it and nods. “Pretty much.”

Armie takes another chug from the beer can, his lips hissing from the carbonation when he pulls away. “And Sufjan, still toting around that damn guitar of his like they're common-law married.” Not that Armie can blame him, a 1940’s Martin cost a pretty-fucking-penny.

“No shit. I’m sure he’d put his dick in it if he could.” Dakota pretends to gag and they all laugh.

“Probably has, let’s be honest,” Dev adds with an exaggerated grimace and Dakota heaves forward dramatically like she’s getting sick. Armie feels a piece inside of himself clicking back into place after years of not noticing it had been askew, a smile aching his stubbled cheeks as they continue to shoot the shit.

“Can’t believe Saoirse and Greta _still_ haven't ironed out their shit, though.” Both Dakota and Dev shrug to that, the three of them having piloted through nearly a decade of their turbulence, and Armie uses the lull in conversation to toss back the rest of his drink.

A question forms in his mind without his permission then, having waited in the shadows of his consciousness for the right moment to present itself. Armie snaps the pulley off the empty can distractedly, bouncing his leg, overthinking how best to phrase it.

Curiosity has nearly worn a hole through him.

“That one kid though,” he starts, running a hand over his damp skull. “Bedhead Medusa with the Batman jawline?”

Crickets.

They both throw him blank stares.

Armie chews a dry spot on his lip. “Tim-o-tay? I don’t know, some French bullshit.” He crushes the empty beer can against his knee, tosses it at the cooler. He misses.

Dakota snorts, pushing off the wall and starts to dig through her bag, probably looking for something to smoke. “You mean Timmy?”

Armie shrugs sharply, looking over at Dev for any kind of help but he’s turned away and is starting to pack up.

“Fuck if I know. He was wearing a white Joe Strummer shirt. Dark hair. Underfed.”

“Yeah,” Dakota sighs with a curious smile, pushing a cigarette into her mouth. It dangles against the skin of her bottom lip while she speaks. “That’s Timmy. He usually only introduces himself as Timothée when he’s being an asshole.” She strikes a match and pulls her cigarette until it’s lit, her eyes on Armie the whole time.

“What about him?” Her tone sounds more accusatory than curious and Armie has never been able to tolerate her hard stare.

“Just curious. I recognized most of the degenerates there Friday--he wasn’t one of them. When did you start hanging out?”

“Like a year ago? He’s a photographer, started coming to shows when it was just Dev and me doing acoustic shit.” Dakota is analyzing him with her eyes. “Why, Armie?” There’s the fucking accusation once again.

Armie’s jaw ticks with irritation but he shrinks, trying to disarm her penetrating look. “Relax. He walked in on me taking a piss. Is that, like, his _thing?_ ”

Dev titters and Dakota softens, shaking her head. “Such a weirdo.”

Armie forfeits the notion that he’s going to get any information from her and throws his arm out, pointing at her cigarette with his chin. “Yeah, a creep. Give me one of those.”

—

The week lurches by as Armie reintegrates himself into Los Angeles. He starts a temp job at a large marketing company, recommended by a friend of his parents, and immediately feels imprisoned by the grueling 9-to-5 slog. One small mercy is his cubicle mate, Jack, a college transplant from Ireland. They talk music and film, and girls. And that Friday night they clock out then walk a few blocks for beer and banh mi sandwiches at a nearby bar.

Somehow they are still holed up there, smoking out on the back patio, when midnight rolls around.

“I can’t make out a fucking thing you’re saying, man,” Armie laughs. Jack’s accent is in full bloom after a split pitcher of Sierra Nevada and two shots apiece.

Jack laughs around a bitten cigarette, clapping Armie on the shoulder. “You’re a fuckin’ piece of shit, you know that?”

Armie pretends not to understand, furrowing his brow and leaning in with his hand cupped tight around one ear. “Huh?”

Jack knocks him in the arm, and Armie looks down, realizes that they are both verging on empty.

“Next round is on me. An IPA?” Jack nods and Armie threads through the chatty crowd towards the door.

It’s loud inside, the high, scraped out ceilings doing nothing for the acoustics. A fleet of Edison bulbs hang down on thin wires, lighting the room in dim hues of yellow and orange. They sway, stirred by the shitty air conditioning system.

He’s only waiting at the bar for a minute or two before someone is poking a finger into the back of his shoulder. Armie’s face flattens in irritation, his bad temper roused.

When he looks back to tell them off it’s Timmy crowded up behind him in line to order.

“You again?”

Timmy’s face slides open into a crooked grin. “Me again.” He’s wearing a hideously patterned shirt and grey joggers, but his face more than makes up for it. And his hair, long tendrils of it spilling out over one side of his face. He sweeps it back with his palm, but it falls right back into his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Belatedly, Armie remembers the tone of their last interaction and raises his hackles back up, good looks be damned. That face is more trouble than it’s worth. Still, Timmy is watching him and, again, there’s nowhere to go.

He plays nice. “Just having a few drinks with a friend.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Timmy says, and Armie scowls at his tone, at the obvious insinuation behind it.

Armie parrots him, “Oh,” and turns back towards the bar to order. “Two Lagunitas IPA’s.”

While he’s fishing out money for the beers and a tip, fingertips skate down his tricep, “A snake. What’s it mean?”

The bartender passes over the perspiring bottles by their necks. Armie collects them between his fingers, shifting his attention back on Timmy and hopefully getting the fuck out of the drink queue. “Huh?”

“Your tattoo. Well, _that_ tattoo. You have a lot.”

Armie brushes off the inquiry, “I don’t know.” Still holding the beer, he uses his knuckles to tip Timmy’s face up towards the light and, getting a better look at him, sees that his expression is a little glazed, eyes watery and mouth loose. Like maybe this isn’t his first stop of the night.

Another indicator is Timmy’s pale hand neatly resting itself against his stomach, his fingers curling slightly, bunching the material. Armie steps back experimentally and Timmy follows, his hand clinging tighter, tugging.

“Are you drunk?” Armie asks then, reluctantly amused, and Timmy bats the question away as an absurdity.

“No,” he rebukes, but he’s staring intently at Armie’s mouth pulled into a small smile that unzips into an antagonizing grin. The bartender makes a sound over the music and Armie glances sidelong.

“What’s your poison?”

Timmy shakes his head and waves the bartender off. “I saw you, just wanted to say ‘hey.’”

“Right.” A beat passes between them.

“Who are you here with?” Timmy asks, looking over his shoulder before twisting back around to catch his eye. Armie feels self-satisfied that he’s piqued TImmy’s curiosity.

“You don’t know him,” he answers plainly.

Timmy nods, releasing his shirt and settles his hand behind his own neck, elbow up as his drags it through the back of his curls. He sways for a moment, body moving from right to left with subtle poise. Armie can’t read his expression but the way his stomach muscles tighten makes him almost certain he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Hey, can we talk?” Timmy propositions, the words insistent, like if he doesn’t say them now then he never will. “Outside.”

Apparently Armie simply looking down at him, struggling to figure out his angle, translates to enthusiastic consent in Timmy’s mind because not a second later Timmy is pulling him through the bar, mouthing off about how he just really wants to talk, to get to know someone he’s heard so much about.

There is no talking involved.

As soon as they’re outside and somewhat concealed by darkness around the side of the building, Timmy is on him, half-climbing Armie for a kiss that he graciously imparts, spinning his skinny frame back against the brick. Opportunist meeting opportunity.

He gets Timmy pinned with his hips which leaves his hands free to explore. They sink underneath the ends of Timmy’s patterned shirt eager to map out the lithe frame hidden underneath, cool and smooth and strung together with light muscle. He rucks the thin material up, pressing the cold buckle of his belt against Timmy’s bare belly.

Timmy stutters out hot breath against his lips, turning to cut his cheek against Armie’s stubble and heave more air. His hand chokes itself around Armie’s upper arm, biting into his skin, clutching on when Armie’s pelvis pushes forward.

“Your mouth,” Timmy murmurs against Armie without explanation, sloppily licking over his chin to his bottom lip when he moves back for more. Armie smirks, proud, because he doesn’t need an explanation. Timmy’s body feels like pure vibration against the wall.

“Yeah, you like that?” Armie swells forward again and Timmy gasps, mouth open, tongue relentless. Armie sucks it from out of his craving mouth and hums, the muscle flexing in response. Timmy tastes like thick smoke and bitter booze, but also warm, like vanilla. He wonders what other parts of his body taste the same.

Armie sinks to his knees but when he gets a hand on Timmy’s belt, Timmy squirms, looking down at him with hooded eyes. “I have a boyfriend, remember?”

Armie throws a look at him but allows himself to be drawn back up by Timmy’s fingers under his chin and drapes over him once more. “But this is allowed?”

“Well…” Timmy breathes, face lifting up as Armie’s descends.

He is fiddling with the rolled ends of Armie’s shirt sleeves when their lips connect again, in a kiss with nowhere to go. Armie tries to play by the rules, even though they’re hazy at best and so is his brain; he really didn’t need that last shot.

His hands smooth up Timmy’s neck and into his hair, grabbing greedy handfuls of it and manhandling his head to the side. Armie sets his teeth against the soft skin below Timmy’s jaw and he freaks, ducking in one frantic sweep of motion out from Armie’s grasp. “Dude!”

Armie lifts his hands in surrender, but Timmy’s jumpiness is getting under his skin. “I wasn’t going to leave a mark.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Timmy huffs out, putting distance between them and grabbing at the back of his neck, chastened. He’s trying to put himself back together, other hand quickly arranging his hard-on. “We shouldn’t have--I mean. You know what I mean. I have a boyfriend.”

Armie scowls, pulling a cigarette and his lighter out of a front pocket. “So you keep saying. And yet I don’t remember putting _my_ tongue down _your_ throat back there.” Armie wonders where the fuck this “boyfriend” is, especially since he can’t seem to keep a grip on his man. There’s got to be a reason why Timmy keeps starting shit with him.

Timmy laughs then, hangs his head with guilt. “I know, I know. I just. I like you.” He swabs his tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes searching upward through dark lashes and shrugs as if that’s explanation enough, as if that gives them free reign to tear each other apart. Armie isn’t sure how much he cares about the fact that Timmy has a boyfriend, but more so that it keeps preventing him from discovering what the weight of his cock feels like against Armie’s tongue.

“You don't know me,” he counters, annoyed and horny. He runs a hand over his crotch to illustrate, his dick just as frustrated as he is.

Timmy looks up beseechingly, shaking his head quickly enough that his hair falls into his face. Armie fights the urge to tuck it away so that he can see his eyes.

“I do. Kinda. Or I want to.” He sucks his lip between his teeth before waving a hand out between them. It is a dizzy, flouncing bird. “We could be friends.”

“I don’t want to be your friend, kid,” Armie snaps, incredulous, lifting an arm above Timmy’s shoulder. He looms over him, the heel of his palm digging into brick. He rolls his hips forward, pressing into Timmy’s front, dips his head down against Timmy’s ear. “Does it feel like I want to be your fucking _friend_?”

“Shit,” Timmy exhales, his head falling back against the brick, his eyes closing. Armie brushes his lips against Timmy’s to prove something to himself, attempts to lick his way inside. Timmy sways into it, but only slightly, only enough for Armie to taste him once more, then he pushes back with palms angled into Armie’s chest. “I should go.”

“Yeah. Go,” Armie growls as Timmy ducks under his arm once again, his shoes crunching in the gravel as he turns around, holding his arms out with insouciance.

“I don’t know what you want from me, man,”

Armie lets out a one syllable laugh. “Not to be your friend.” Then he lights up, burning away Timmy’s silhouette for a minute in the flame. But it’s still there when he begins pulling smoke. Armie just stares at him. What a fucking joke.

Timmy looks ruffled, like he’s itching for a reason to stay; Armie doesn’t give him one. He breathes out a plume of white and waves Timmy off with the fingers that aren’t pinched to hold his cigarette.

A few minutes later, when he’s scraping the wasted butt against a jut of brick, Jack rounds the corner. On sight he stops dead to glare from the sidewalk. The bar is emptying, people slopping out its doors and down the street or into cars.

Armie drops the crumpled filter into a planter full of dead cacti and walks towards him, a tired smile in his voice when he can make out the unhappiness stamped all over Jack’s face.

He puts up a hand. “You don’t have to say it. I fucking know, okay? I’m a piece of shit. Can we go?”

Jack rolls his eyes, but he’s a softie, and no doubt was able to occupy himself with a pretty girl inside while Armie was wasting time outside with Timmy. All is forgiven and he moves aside for Armie to step into line next to him so that they can head back towards their work parking lot to sit and talk until someone is sober enough to get them both home.

Armie keeps his promise to Timmy, doesn’t mention anything about the kiss, or any other despite the fact that Jack exists outside of their circle. He’s sure that there are physical signs to what he’d been doing in the alleyway, but conversation flows without questioning.

And Armie is grateful, could kiss him, would maybe, after the way his night has gone. If he was a little more self-destructive and more convinced that Jack would be into that sort of thing. Instead he settles on making a deal with himself that the next person he kisses won’t be Timmy. Armie has more self-respect than to mess around with some pretty boy who doesn’t know what he wants.

Timmy’s lost his chance.

—

**according to your heart**  
**my place is not deliberate**  
**feeling of your arms**  
**i don't want to be your friend**  
**i want to kiss your neck**


	3. anobrain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone that's hanging out with us!  
> your love & kudos & comments are appreciated.  
> btw - always keep an eye on the tags because we'll update them as things progress.

Timmy:  
text me when you leave.

Timmy:  
you on your way?

Timmy:  
helloooo. earth to boyfriend. boyfriend come in.

Timmy:  
fffff answer your phone!

Ansel:  
Sorry, Tim. I was offered a shift tonight so I’m working. Lunch tomorrow?

Timmy chucks his phone like it’s a ninja star, wedging it in the couch to keep from leaving a six part voicemail demonstrating the art of passive aggression. It’s just so fucking _typical._

He begins pacing through the front room of his small, scarcely furnished apartment, tugging on his hair with both fists, his eyes buttoned shut.

They’ve spoken about this _so_ many times; Ansel taking on extra shifts without asking Timmy first, especially when they’ve already made plans. He walks past a full-length mirror propped against the wall and snarls at his reflection.

Thinking back, he can’t recall a weekend day that Ansel saved for him in recent memory. Week days were school with a side helping of work, and weekends were just 48 hour opportunities for more work. Which was commendable, sure. Ansel had an incredible work ethic, but it wasn’t translating well where Timmy was concerned.

What’s the point of dating if they never see each other? Barely even speak, at this point. Occasionally, on good days, Timmy would get apologetic blow jobs. He’d get fucked on better ones, but better days didn’t happen anymore.

Three years is beginning to feel like a dead end.

After another few minutes of cooling off, Timmy flops onto the couch, dressed and without anything to do. Wearing pants at home when there isn’t a reason for it should be a crime. Especially when they’re this form-fitted.

He retrieves his phone from the cushion crease, and sinks into it, joylessly scrolling social media. He taps through barbecues and farmers markets, softball games, portraits of fruity mixed drinks, babies of people he used to party with but who no longer partake in the scene.

It’s Saturday night and he must be the only person within the county limits that’s stuck at home, sitting on his ass, already bored out of his mind. It’s a feeling that he’s grown quite familiar with, an ache that he’d been hoping to walk off but that has only metastasized with time.

Dakota’s Instagram story is a menagerie of flower pics from her morning run, and then lunch — a salmon and quinoa salad — and two selfies of her smiling next to her friend Chris. The most recent addition, posted 2 hours ago is a screenshot of a flyer.

Her band, DLID, is playing a show at The Peach Pit. _‘WE’RE ON THIRD’_ is typed over the face of the design. _‘SEE YOU THERE!’_

It’s 8:35 right now. The show started at 8.

Timmy shoves his feet into retro high top Nikes that have seen better days and gets his phone, keys, and wallet together before his brain can ruminate about tonight. About the details. About who he might see.

Ready, he locks up his apartment only to unlock it and reach back inside, slipping his Pentax K1000 from its hook near the door. Then he’s down the stairs and into a Lyft that’s waiting for him at the corner.

-

The club is only a short ride away that Timmy spends in offended silence--the driver had switched the music from the classic hip-hop he’d been playing to something generic that was made for the masses with Timmy climbed in, easy consumption, no heart or soul. Nickelback-esque.

He still forks over a $5 tip via the app when the blue Honda sidles up to the curb and lets him out -- he’s not a monster and he takes his 5-star rider rating very seriously. He thanks the guy and shoots him a wave before shutting the door.

The Peach Pit is a small music venue next to busy train tracks. It has murals splattered against every wall and smells vaguely of old cushions, stale smoke, and sweat that’s been absorbed into the flooring after all these years.

To make up for the noise of the trains they offer two dollar well shots whenever one passes by, and Timmy readily ascribes blame to them for at least two instances of blackout drinking in the past six months. Maybe three, possibly four instances but it’s all quite hazy by now.

He steps out into a sparse grouping of smokers milling around out front, recognizing a few of them, but not enough to explicitly say hello. Instead there’s an exchange of awkward, tight-lipped smiles, and a few nods of acknowledgement. He’s grateful no one approaches just yet because he needs a substance in his system to shake off this bad mood first, the bitterness of being cancelled on after being cancelled on, ad infinitum

He needs a drink, a drag, a line, _something_ to put him in the mindset for a night at a bar show, for socializing, for a confidence boost behind the lens — not that he needs it. Maybe he just needs a reason, to prepare justification, _’I was fucked up’_ he’ll be able to say.

But Timmy isn’t even sure what he needs to justify yet.

Music is playing from inside, raucous but muffled. It vibrates a large poster-covered window next to the main doors, making the scratched glass tremble. Timmy checks his phone. It’s 8:49 and Dakota’s story had claimed that they’d be performing third. He assumes that a place like The Peach Pit wouldn’t have its shit together enough to have blown through two sets already, but still frowns at the idea that he may have missed seeing her play.

A weathered, thin man with a low ponytail checks his ID and takes his cover.

“Who’s on right now?” Timmy asks, closing up his wallet, feeding it into his pocket with some effort. The man just looks past him, waving over the person at his back.

“Next.”

Timmy deflates and shoots a dirty look. The guy doesn’t even notice. Maybe today just isn’t his day. Maybe he ought to call it, go home, and test his luck with tomorrow, but the crusty door man isn’t going to give him back those ten dollars, and Timmy could really use a drink.

He goes in.

Not even five feet inside, his field of vision narrows, blocking out the bar to his left and the tables to his right and the platform stage at the far end of the space.

Timmy hadn’t even let himself touch on the notion that Armie would be here. He was just coming for something to do, to distract from the sadness caught under his ribs like a rusted fishing hook. His plan was to squeeze off a few shots and spend the rest of his evening developing the negatives at home, with the assistance of a loud Spotify playlist and a few more drinks, making himself too busy to deal with any of the bullshit that currently surrounds him.

In theory, Timmy didn’t give a fuck that Armie Hammer would be here. In practice, however, it unbalances him to a worrying degree.

Armie is a breathing skyscraper in all black next to the sound booth, his body curved to speak with a pair of guys. They are three bowed heads talking over the band playing on stage, and each holding a beer. Armie lifts his pint glass and drains the remaining half in two gulps, neck exposed, chin high. Timmy’s eyes follow where he imagines a stray drop of beer might be leaking from lips to throat, down to Armie’s chest.

An idle thought rolls through Timmy’s brain and he wonders if the black tee Armie’s wearing is the same one he’d had on when Timmy kissed him outside the bar two weeks ago. He remembers the soft sleeves under his palms, remembers stretching the fabric when he grew impatient and _pulled_.

Armie looks painfully good tonight. Literally; it’s making Timmy’s stomach hurt.

He doesn’t let his mind wander further south. It’s too-fucking-unfair.

After a few seconds of secret appreciation, their eyes meet. Timmy smiles but the dispassionate look Armie saddles him with keeps him firmly planted on the other side of the room. Message received: _Fuck Off._

Timmy pivots, letting Armie slide out of view in favor of approaching the bar. Salvation, distraction.

Dakota sidles up to him while the bartender is making his whiskey sour.

“Timmy,” she squeals happily, drawing him into a hug. He can’t match her enthusiasm by half, but tries, squeezing. Her hair smells like vanilla and oranges.

“Hi, D.”

She squeezes tighter after hearing his tone, which sounds dejected even to Timmy’s ears. Her fingers frame his cheeks, smoothing back freshly washed curls. God, he loves her. “I thought you were going out with Ansel tonight.” She doesn’t bother to facade the statement as a question and he loves her more for it.

His drink appears on a square napkin and he pays. He looks down at the foaming egg head, fiddles with the little black straw. Dakota is beautiful in her simple white crop top and blue jeans, but he doesn’t want to look at her, already knows what he would find pity creasing her brow.

“He had to cancel, took an extra shift tonight.”

“Oh, Timmy,” she sighs. Pity. It’s in her voice just as surely as it’s on her face, the soft attempt at hiding it making him swell with fondness for her. She strokes over a spot on his neck which, if anything, only makes him want to cry.

When did Ansel bailing start affecting him like this?

Dakota sighs again and he catches the last dregs of empathy dissolve. Her face lifts and her tone sizzles into bubbling excitement.

“Timmy!” she coos, yanking on the red strap camouflaged against his red button up. “You brought your camera!”

“I did. Is that cool? I haven’t asked—”

Dakota waves away his question like a nettlesome bug in the air. “Of course it is. I can’t fucking wait to see what you shoot.”

The band on stage has one more song; they need to start setting up soon. Dev summons Dakota for help and she holds Timmy’s elbow to draw him near for a kiss on the cheek. Then she leaves, turning on her way towards the back door and shouting that people are going to her place when the show is over, that he should come. _Please._

Timmy waves, a smile curling his lips, and shouts back, “Maybe.”

When she’s gone, he realizes that he’s feeling much lighter and takes a proper seat at the bar, working down his drink. And by the time the lights are going down again, Timmy is center stage, camera in hand.

He’s always loved the separation a camera lens affords. Masqueraded by his Pentax, Timmy feels bold, alive. Carefree and unforgiving, as if he’s been gifted an all-access pass to view the world as intimately and closely as possible, at every angle.

It helps that shooting a band with individuals like Dev and Dakota is pure energy. Timmy feeds off of it, angling the camera right and left, capturing Dakota’s fierce and unapologetic demand as she fronts the stage, entrances the crowd with a mic stand skewered out at an angle in her hand. Dev sways to one side of her, slicing the head stock of his bass from side to side, his fingers gnawing at the strings.

But as captivating as Dakota and Dev are, it’s Armie who completely consumes Timmy’s focus. Normally he tries to divvy attention up equally among each member, but Armie is a hurricane of stamina at the back of the platform and Timmy is unable to stray from him for long.

He remembers Armie’s performance on the day they met, but the club they were playing then had a cramped stage and a shitty light guy and Timmy hadn’t known what the inside of Armie’s mouth tasted like yet.

He pummels the kit shirtless tonight, in nothing but a pair of tiny black gym shorts and shoes without socks, slamming his arms down when Dakota’s voice cuts out on cue. His legs hardly fit behind the bass drum, thighs spread wide, thick and damp and covered with hair.

Timmy is half hard for the entire show, moving from spot to spot taking photos.

He snaps a few shots of Armie rolling the snare, biceps huge, forearms tight and corded with muscle. Everything covered in a wet sheen.

His body is thrashing discord, but his face is pure focus and Timmy closes in with his lens, captures a portrait of Armie licking sweat from his upper lip, and another of his profile, brow tense and eyelashes stark against the blurred background.

He can already see the photos developed in gritty black and white, sitting in his solution trays at home, feels giddy with anticipation, impatient to get home and help them bloom.

-

Daniel, Timmy’s lead at work, comes over to say hello once the set is over and the band is tearing down.

“They were dope. I think I’ve seen them before.”

“Daniel, hey! They were huh,” Timmy agrees, pulled into a half-hug. He likes Daniel, kind of a hard ass on the clock but pretty artsy and laid back outside of Whole Foods.

“Do you know them?”

Timmy fits the lens cap back over his camera. “Yeah, yeah. The singer. Dakota.”

Daniel gives him a discreet thumbs up. “Nice, mate,” and Timmy laughs, throws both hands up in an X.

“No no no. It’s not like that. We’re friends.”

“Right. And you’re still with Ansel?”

Timmy’s head bobs in an awkward nod. “Yup.”

“Where’s he at?”

“Work. Pulling another double at the hospital.” If Daniel picks up his tone, he doesn’t make it obvious.

“Ah. Well that’s cool.”

“Sure.”

Timmy and Daniel continue chatting, and he realizes that they haven’t had a conversation about anything non-work related in a while. It’s refreshing, speaking with someone who isn’t elbow deep in his personal shit all the time, who exists outside of his crayon box of friends, with a healthy, balanced life.

Daniel talks about preparing for his last semester of graduate school and by the time they say goodbye, Daniel heading back into the crowd, the last band is starting to play.

Timmy lingers, dropping off his empty glass at the bar, but what he hears can hardly be categorized as music. In five minutes, he doesn’t think they’ve strung together one melody. And maybe it’s just too high brow for him, but Timmy feels ready to bounce; his film roll is full and he’s itching to get home to find out if he’s caught anything magic. Old school photography can feel like panning for gold.

Before he leaves, he scans the room looking for Dakota. He’ll tell her goodbye and then he’ll catch a car. She isn’t inside, or at least not that he can see, and she’s one of those people whose presence draws your attention so he goes looking for her out front.

She isn’t there either.

With two exceptions, it’s desolate outside, everyone not connected to the last band having moved on most likely, to bars or parties or to meet their dealers.

Timmy knows he should go back inside or leave, but he’s snared by what he sees.

Armie is smoking under an orange-cast metal streetlight, with one arm slung over a beautiful woman. He has her turned towards him so that his mouth can reach her ear and whatever he’s saying is making her laugh and swat at him. She tilts her angled chin up for a puff of his cigarette and he swivels his palm in offering, watching her lips as they close around the filter.

Timmy recognizes the heat in Armie’s expression. He’d been the recipient of twice now, had seen it flower and then, because of his own actions, wilt. Witnessing it being employed on someone else sews a stitch into his side, makes his next few draws of breath shallow and deficient.

Just then, Armie’s eyes cut up and meet Timmy’s from over the woman’s shoulder. Any warmth they’d been holding cools off instantly. Timmy swallows and finds that his throat has gone dry.

Armie’s attention switches back over and he bows his head closer, speaking to the woman in a low voice meant for her alone. All Timmy can make out is the way his arm slithers off from around her neck, his fingers crawling as they trail down her back, resting just at the curve of her ass.

She is even prettier head on, tight curls and a low cut tank and a wide smile that she flashes when she slips past him with a friendly, “excuse me, babe,” on her way inside, leaving him alone with Armie.

“Where’s Dakota?” Timmy asks, sidestepping out of the way of the door to stand just as awkwardly in front of the window. He feels so aware of his own body that he doesn’t know what to do with his limbs.

Armie pulls at the last of his cigarette before pushing it away from his lips with the tip of his tongue and stomping it out. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Timmy suppresses the urge to be snide. “He’s working.”

“That’s convenient.” Armie looks past Timmy’s shoulder before their eyes reconnect again, but not before his flicker down to Timmy’s lips. “He must do that quite a bit.” His tone is full of implication and suspicion.

Timmy knows what Armie means, knows the jab he’s taking, but the words strike a different nerve and Timmy just slacks his shoulder, his voice dripping with thinly-veiled bitterness.

“Yeah, no shit. Who was that?”

Armie plays dumb, quirking his head. “Who?”

“The girl, Armie.”

His gaze travels to that same spot above Timmy’s shoulder. He must be able to see her inside through the tinted window. “Someone I know, her name is Zazie. Why does it matter?”

Timmy doesn’t like the way his next words sound, wishes he could spool them back up once he’s said them. “Are you fucking her?”

The already fragile mood sours. Armie’s jaw ticks sideways and he laughs. “What can I say,” he exhales with an antagonistic grin, “when it’s good, it’s _good_ , you know?”

Timmy fails at hiding his annoyance and knows that if he sticks around, they’ll just keep going back and forth at each other. Gathering his hurt, he flutters his eyes and puts on a fake, all teeth, no tenderness grin. “Whatever, man.” Then he’s turning and throwing out a peace sign before taking long strides down the block.

-

Timmy is decidedly not going to go to Dakota’s after--he’s feeling shitty on all fronts and would rather hole up at his apartment, working in his makeshift darkroom--but then she pulls up in her red El Camino as he’s waiting for his Lyft and essentially threatens to climb the curb and run him over if he doesn’t get in.

“Is that a promise?” Timmy asks, and she pins him with a look, popping the locks and nodding into the empty passenger seat.

“It’s Dev and Armie’s turn to drop our shit off at the warehouse so I’m heading home. This last band is full of dickheads.”

Timmy stares at her, his phone pinging with a text that his lyft driver has arrived.

“There’s rum and leftover carne asada,” she teases in a sing-song voice, and Timmy rolls his eyes, cancelling his solitary plans and the lyft and opening her car door; he’s such a pushover for this girl.

-

When they get to the house Timmy hangs with Dakota on the back patio, the cement warm under his bare feet and Joyce Manor sifting out of her Bluetooth speaker, until people begin trickling in. Then he migrates to the kitchen, pulls himself up onto a counter top and into a heated discussion with Saoirse and Greta about whether or not SoundCloud artists should be taken seriously. And there he stays for the next few hours, hiding out.

Just after midnight he fires off a quick text to Ansel, fully aware that he won’t be hearing back until morning.

Timmy:  
come by dakotas when youre off...if youre not too tired

Ansel always crashes after late shifts, and even if by some miracle he wasn’t spent, he wouldn’t want to come here. The local music scene was a shared interest while they were in college, but as time went on Ansel drifted toward “serious” hobbies while Timmy became even more rooted in the art community.

Timmy’s attention is torn away from his stagnant Messages app when there is a sudden shouting in the other room. The kitchen empties out and he follows, but not before swiping his plastic cup from next to the sink. Coke and Malibu goes down easy.

Armie--because of course it is--crashes backward into a wall as Timmy enters the space, knocking down a framed picture and shattering its glass. But as quickly as he is thrown back, he surges forward, swinging at some guy Timmy’s never seen, double tapping him in the eye before he can react.

It makes a loud, obscene sound, even over the music playing on the TV, and the guy wails, shorter than Armie but not by much. He has on a military-style cap and a white TOOL shirt. Armie spins his fist into it, dragging him in and landing another hit.

Dakota screams from the open sliding glass door for Armie to stop. His head snaps in her direction, pinching with worry at her tone, and the stranger takes advantage of his momentary lapse in focus, sucker-punching him in the nose.

When Armie looks back again, his nose is bleeding into his mouth and his eyes are wild. “You weasel fuck!” he spits, and lunges forward.

That’s when Dev and Justin intervene, vaulting a couch to separate the two, another stranger jumping in to help.

It’s like time jumps from Pause to Fast Forward once the altercation has ended. Everyone bursts into motion, the clearing where Armie had been fighting filling in with bodies, people coming together to discuss what just happened and get refills on drinks.

The girl from earlier, the one Timmy has convinced himself Armie fucked, speaks up from across the room. She looks unimpressed -- a far cry from the eyes she was making at Armie earlier in the night. Timmy watches with piqued curiosity as she shakes her head and pulls her friend out of the room. He catches her voice as she exits.

“I don’t have time for these crazy ass white boys.”

Timmy pops out a startled laugh, in shock from the fight. His attention turns quickly to Armie again as he passes by, still looking feral while Dev and Justin sequester him down the hall and into the bathroom at Dakota’s command.

The guy he’d been fighting leaves, and a few other people Timmy gives the living room a cursory once-over to be sure that there isn’t anybody still looking to start shit and then dutifully follows after Armie, his feet carrying him through the wake of chaos. Dev and Justin are shutting the bathroom door when he approaches, trading tired, twin expressions. This isn’t their first rodeo.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Dev warns, but they don’t try to stop him, and Timmy just shrugs, turning the knob as they walk off for a well-deserved drink.

Armie gets into fights. It’s one of several anecdotes Timmy has heard repeated during his tenure with this grouping of friends. But hearing crazy stories told through laughter while sat under the stars with friends is a far cry from witnessing one of these brawls firsthand.

Adrenaline is lapping at Timmy, his skin still buzzing from watching Armie smash his fist into the side of someone’s face.

He squeezes into the bathroom to find Armie leaning over the sink, breathing hard. A dark stream of blood is carving a path through his eyebrow and into his eye. Timmy must not have seen that first hit, was probably still in the kitchen, minding his own damn business.

“You’re an insane person,” he says, and Armie’s reflection doesn’t even look at him. His head is bowed so that most of the mess is dripping into the sink. Which doesn’t really solve the problem. Timmy puts his arms around Armie’s middle. “Let me help.”

“Fuck off,” Armie breathes, but then they’re shuffling together, Timmy trying to maneuver him into a sitting position in the tiny bathroom.

The back of Armie’s head falls with a _thud_ against the wall as he squeezes into the small space between the toilet and sink. His boots knock into the side of the tub because his legs are stupid long, scuffing the porcelain. A surly marionette with severed strings.

“Thanks, you can go now,” Armie groans, waving Timmy in the direction of the door. He’s preoccupied with spinning out too much toilet paper from the roll, some of the cotton sticking to the blood on his fingers. Timmy stands and watches him with a mix of annoyance and amusement. Mostly he just feels bad for the guy--even though, admittedly, he does look disturbingly hot with blood oozing from his nose and his lip swelling up.

Timmy rolls his eyes at the dismissal and starts digging through the cupboards. Armie is cussing to himself on the floor behind him. He finds ibuprofen and some first aid supplies, and snags a small washcloth from a metal drying rack. He runs it under cold water and takes a seat on the toilet by Armie, holds out the damp cloth that’s dripping onto his jeans and all over the floor.

“Are you gonna keep being a dick or can I help you?” he asks and Armie looks up at him, swiping his tongue over his bruised, split bottom lip. Something changes in his blue stare but Timmy holds his gaze, the challenge, doesn’t back down. Doesn’t even blink.

Eventually Armie lifts his chin, eyes rolling, “If you must.” He twists his mouth like he’s collecting saliva and when he smiles, teeth bared, corners of his mouth spread wide, it turns out to be exactly what he was doing.

Bloody teeth on display, Timmy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re fucking crazy.”

Armie scoffs but his voice shakes into a hiss when Timmy crouches down and presses the cloth against his lip, reaching with his other hand to adjust his face upward even more.

“Yeah? Then why are you here?” Armie asks, his eyes held shut. He hums through the pain while Timmy cleans up his chin. “Why are you helping me?”

“You know why. I’ve told you,” Timmy answers, face taught with concentration, eyes focused. “I like you.”

“Whatever.”

Armie’s mouth looks like it wants to smile but Timmy gives him reprieve to hide behind as he continues to clean him up. It’s silent for a while as Timmy works and also strangely intimate, Timmy fitting himself into the small space next to the toilet with Armie, hovering over his thighs with his bare feet placed on either side of his knee.

Armie closes his eyes and with his stare no longer there to argue, Timmy takes a minute to admire parts of his face he wasn’t brazen enough to before. Timmy lifts his thumb and pretends to swipe away blood from Armie’s eyebrow though he’s already cleaned the area. His thumb scoops around the crescent curve of his socket and he sighs reactively, his gaze washing over Armie’s long, thick eyelashes.

“If someone were to show me a photo of just your eyes, I’d assume they belonged to a woman.”

Armie’s lids blink open. Timmy watches as his pupils retract, adjust, dilate. They’re close enough that he can make out his own reflected silhouette.

“I could say the same thing about your mouth,” Armie replies in a hushed voice.

Timmy’s mouth slips into a smirk but he relaxes back into concentration a second later, seeing another spot that needs attention.

When Armie’s face is no longer slick with blood, Timmy fishes for his hand, pulling up Armie’s wrist and dropping the wadded rag into it. He’s pausing to pop open the bottle of painkillers, dumps a few out into his hand. “Open up.”

Armie shoots him a look but complies, easing open his jaw and sticking his tongue out. Timmy tips the pills into Armie’s mouth, flourishing his empty hand as a cue to swallow. Then he goes back to work with the cloth, taking a careful moment to spread a band-aid over the deep cut across the bridge of Armie’s nose.

“Your nose isn’t broken, is it?” he asks, setting the pads of his middle finger and thumb against the hinge of Armie’s jaw to look and see. Armie shakes his head ‘no.’

“Good.”

Timmy gets up reluctantly, nudging Armie’s boot with his foot and their knees tap together. It’s a small sensation but Timmy holds on to it because who knows what else he’ll get from Armie. If it weren’t for this fist fight, they would’ve spent all night avoiding each other--and Armie may have done so with Zazie attached to his mouth.

Timmy rinses the washcloth under the tap, watching the water turn from red to orange to copper as the blood drains from the fabric. Even his own fingertips are stained with Armie’s blood, and his shirt.

The door suddenly kicks open and Dakota marches in. She throws a bag of frozen peas at Armie, which he ignores.

“Man, fuck that guy,” she growls, obviously still keyed up. She looks over at Timmy, gaze dropping to the bloody water in the sink, then looks back down at Armie. “You good?”

“I’m good.” Armie looks over at Timmy, who nods in confirmation. Dakota eyes them, clearly thinking they’re full of shit. She presses the palm of her hand to Armie’s forehead, tilting his head back, but he swats her away. She kicks at him and plants her hand there again, leaning in.

“Don’t be a damn baby. I just want to make sure you’re not concussed.”

Timmy busies himself by cleaning up while Dakota and Armie go back and forth, calling each other names, slapping at each other’s fingers. Timmy finds it endearing, the way they show their love for one another. It also unearths a feeling of longing in his gut for something, or someone, in his life that he might love and trust that deeply, to have known for so long that you didn’t feel the need to be anyone other than exactly yourself.

“You didn’t need to start a fight, Armie,” Dakota sighs, looking at him with concern mixed with admiration.

Armie shrugs a shoulder. “The dumb fuck was talking shit about you in your own house. He deserved it.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t be an official return home unless you got into a fight.”

She smiles as she stands, rubbing over Armie’s buzzed head like a petulant child. “You should lay down and chill for awhile though. I’ll go send everyone home.”

Dakota leans in to give Timmy a kiss on the cheek as she passes by. Her eyes are discerning but sweet. “Take care of him for me, yeah? And you,” her face turns to address Armie. “If I wake up and you’re dead, I’m going to kill you.”

-

Timmy is laid out on his side next to Armie on his back, both of their heads sharing a big square pillow that's propped to keep Armie from swallowing his own blood. Being sardined into a twin-sized cut out perpendicular to Dakota’s bed has them a fingerbreadth away from touching. He wishes they were but he can feel pure heat radiating from Armie’s body, so for now, he’s content.

“These painkillers aren’t doing shit,” Armie complains, his brow pulled together, his voice low and breathy. “There’s some K in my bag over there.” He opens his eyes and nods by the window. “Do you mind?”

Timmy’s body twists as he lifts himself up. He crawls on his knees for a pace and then reaches out, grabbing a black Jansport backpack that’s covered with old band patches and a few rusted pins. He follows Armie’s instructions and unzips the lower pocket, fishing around until he locates a rolled plastic bag with a few pills inside. He hands the baggie to Armie, who wastes no time unraveling it and plucking out a pill. He throws the pill to the back of his throat and dry swallows with minimal movement.

“If you’re going to play doctor, you might as well enjoy yourself,” Armie says then, passing the bag over to Timmy, who obliges eagerly.

It’s silent while they wait for the Ketamine to take effect and after twenty minutes, Timmy feels the slow creep of warmth taking over the tips of his fingers and spreading out through the rest of his body. Feeling good, he readjusts, propping his head up with one hand and affording himself a slightly elevated view of Armie.

A patch of his stubble is mottled with dried blood; Timmy must have missed a spot. He stares at it, fighting the strange urge to crane forward and press the flat of his tongue to it. The effect Armie has on him is mystifying, and yet over and over Timmy keeps re-finding this same unique brand of want when he’s around. “I want to kiss you,” he says quietly, sleepy and loose-lipped and just wanting to be honest.

Armie’s head turns against the pillow to face him, his expression smooth. His gaze shifts from Timmy’s eyes down to his lips and back, Armie’s dust-colored lashes fanning Timmy’s spark of hunger into a flame.

“Don’t,” Armie says in a near whisper, the word sounding both like a command and a regret.

Timmy nods in earnest, trying to decipher the emotion on his face, not sure what he’s hoping for but not quite finding it in Armie’s wearied stare. “I won’t.”

He lifts his hand then and gently flattens down the thin bandage spanning Armie’s nose bridge.

“What’s the worst fight you’ve ever been in?”

Armie looks away again, back into the ceiling, and Timmy relegates his reverence of Armie’s bone structure to his profile.

”I was probably your age,” he starts after a minute or two of quiet, “some drunk bastard was shitfaced, thought he had the right to start yelling racial slurs at Dev during a set. I tried to ignore it--Dev wanted to just play through.” Timmy can feel the heat of the memory burning over Armie’s skin, his expression matching the rising temperature. “Dakota stopped in the middle of a song to tell him off so he started throwing a few choice words at her too. I lost it, jumped off the stage and laid him out but then one of his buddies got involved, Believe it or not, the guy was bigger than me, taller and twice as wide.”

Timmy tries to visualize everything as Armie speaks. He finds violence mostly intolerable but the thought of Armie flying off the stage to defend his friends is even more of a turn on than the bruised knuckles he helped clean up earlier.

“What happened?” He asks, his eyes still scaling the rise and falls of Armie’s facial structure.

“We both ended up in the hospital.” Armie’s lips curve into a reminiscent grin, his head slowly rotating to the side, their eyes connecting. Timmy feels his head buzz but once again, maybe it’s just the drugs. Ketamine always makes him warm and muddled. Armie and his goddamn perfect smile can’t have all the credit.

Timmy grimaces with a spread of teeth on display. “What the hell.”

Armie is lost in the memory, but then he nods. “This tooth,” he rakes the left front one with his tongue. “Is a fake. And I had fractured eye socket. The other dude wound up with a broken jaw.”

There’s a small silence before Timmy huffs out a thoughtful sound, ”You’re an idiot,” and Armie smiles, despite himself.

That smile sets off a chain reaction in Timmy and he succumbs to a sudden, violent fit of giggles, imagining the entire dramatic ordeal. His body closes in, knees shifting upward with the force of his laughter. His nose scrunches and his eyes blur with thin tears as he tries to hold it back.

Timmy has to bite down on his lip and cough to keep from laughing even harder and when he meets Armie’s eyes, shakes his head in jubilant disdain. Armie is stoic for all of three seconds before his smile brightens, making him instantly wince from the stretch of tender skin, the cut across his lip pulling tight.

“And I’m the idiot?” he asks while Timmy chuckles deliriously next to him, lifting a finger to his lip. When he pulls away, a small smear of blood is there and Timmy pulls up the hem of his own shirt, exposing belly, to wipe away the faint drip of blood that was beginning to pool against Armie’s bottom lip.

Their laughter slowly fades, and so does the night, the drugs and exhaustion taking over. Timmy makes note of the back of Armie’s hand against his flank before he closes his eyes, telling himself he’s just going to rest them for a minute, and then there’s nothing.

-

Consciousness slowly pours into Timmy the next morning, his brain firing up in stages.

His eyes open before there is any sense behind them, and he reaches, tucking his palm in against Armie’s ribcage, arm stretched over his chest.

Warm, clean light is filtering into the room through Dakota’s gauzy curtains. Her bed looks empty.

Timmy blinks the world into focus and shifts closer, watching Armie’s sleeping face, becoming aware of the warm arm fitted along his spine. They’re in the same positions they’d fallen asleep in, only at some point in the night Timmy traded in the big square pillow for Armie’s collarbone and Armie must have pulled off his shirt. His chest hair tickles the underside of Timmy’s chin.

What time is it?

His phone is too far away and he’s not willing to extricate himself from Armie in order to get it just yet.

Timmy’s knee is hinged up over the round of Armie’s thigh and when he shifts it’s nudging against something firm that he eventually comes to terms with being Armie’s morning wood.

_Holy shit._

Consciousness spills faster then, less viscous, and Timmy shudders, gaze slipping down, towards their covered bodies. Experimentally, he turns his hip. Armie makes a low, drawn sound that Timmy feels reverberate in his own cock, and rolls his head so that they’re face to face. He hasn't swelled too badly in the night thanks to Dakota's frozen peas, but places on his eye and nose are painted in dark blues and purples. His injuries look painful but they don't diminish his good looks any; Timmy can't imagine what would.

A moment later, Armie's eyelids lift and Timmy is briefly disappointed, but only because he’d been hoping for just a little more time with sleeping Armie. Who knows which temperament is going to possess his gorgeous body and greet Timmy today. Thus far, most of the versions he’s met have been less than amicable towards him.

The hand grazing the small of Timmy’s back stretches, but Armie’s expression remains soft.

“Hi,” Timmy breathes, and eases forward just as Armie presses in to kiss him, without thought or agenda, his body asking for a kiss and Armie’s answering. It is almost chaste, their lips slotting together easily, and idling.

When they part and Timmy wets his mouth, he tastes blood.

“That was stupid,” Armie sighs, but Timmy steamrolls his lament with words, though internally he wonders if he means the kiss, or sleeping next to each other last night. Maybe both.

“How’s your face feel?”

“Fucking terrible. Thanks for reminding me.” He smiles, winces, pushes through the twinge of pain to smile again.

Armie’s hand grabs for a second at the sharp edge of Timmy’s hip, but then he blinks himself out of the idea and lets go, flinging the blankets off and getting to his feet. “Gotta pee,” he says without turning back, and leaves the room.

Lips tingling, Timmy feels high again. He licks over his mouth to salvage any remnants of Armie.

He starfishes out against the rumpled blankets, scrabbling for his phone with lazy fingers. He taps the screen on and sees that it’s already past eleven and that Ansel has texted. His face drops before he even reads the message.

Ansel:  
Can’t make lunch. Exhausted. Dinner?

Timmy:  
are you serious right now

Ansel:  
Please, Tim. Not now. I’ll make it up to you.

Timmy stares down at his phone, a bubbling feeling taking over his insides. He’s had enough, of all of it. He looks over his shoulder at the door, hearing Armie across the hallway in the restroom. He must be pissing with the door open. Timmy turns back to the situation in his palm, adrenaline pumping through him.

Timmy:  
nothing to make up for. im done.

Ansel’s name pops up on his screen and Timmy sends the call to voicemail. His chest is heaving from the overwhelming relief that’s flooding his system, the finality of his decision already lifting off his shoulders. His skin is tingling. His hands feel numb.

He doubles down. 

Timmy:  
im serious. I can’t do this anymore

Ansel:  
You’re breaking up with me? Through text?

Calling it quits on three years via text is callous, if not cruel, but if he were to wait for them to meet in person they’d likely be celebrating a decade together. His thumb types out the three damning letters and he hits send

Timmy:  
yes

He turns off his phone, feeling shocked by what he’s done, just as Armie walks back in the room.

“I’m starving.” Armie stretches, grabbing a shirt from a pile of half-folded clothes. He has no idea that Timmy’s entire world has just toppled into a new, unfamiliar skyline while he was peeing.

It feels weird. Exciting. Scary. Opportunity has been trying to break down his door and he is filled with a sudden rush of excitement knowing that he can finally let it in.

Timmy stretches too, twisting his spine this way and that, and buries his phone in his back pocket. “My afternoon just freed up. Want to get lunch?”

Armie steps through the messy floor towards him, sizing Timmy up, breathing him in. And Timmy lets him. He ignores the embarrassment when considering what his hair must look like, his face, puffy from sleep, his wrinkled clothing. His future remade, he holds his chin up, meeting Armie’s gaze when his mouth splits into a toothy, bruised grin.

“Fuck it, yeah. Let’s get lunch.”

 

-

**_are we just friends_ **

**_can you leave a bit of your k_ **

**_for you, babe_ **

**_it's a no brain_ **

 

 


	4. settle down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we like, keep accidentally getting carried away.  
> also, if you don't know what a 4x4 is from in-n-out burger, definitely google it and imagine armie hammer demolishing one. you're welcome.  
> umm, yeah. this is all fiction and fun.  
> kbyee.

Timmy comes to an abrupt stop when Armie unlocks his champagne-colored 1998 Nissan Altima.

Armie looks over the top of the car at him questioningly, pushing his sunglasses higher up his nose in a half-hearted attempt to hide his battered face. The swelling is worse today, the skin around his mouth feels tight. His cheekbone is warm to the touch.

Timmy circles around the back, snorting when he passes by the rear window, then leans over the top of the car.

“World’s Coolest Grandma?” he asks, grinning, nodding towards a faded bumper sticker next to the license plate.

“I’m sure she was,” Armie replies, pulling open the driver’s side door with a morbid smile. He bought the car used for next to nothing, and never bothered to scrape the old stickers off. “Cheap cars usually come from dead people.”

He catches Timmy’s mouth drops before he folds inside, leaning over to unlock the passenger side and push the handle to open it.

Timmy slides in. “That’s fucked up.”

Armie barks out a one-syllable laugh, grimacing when his face stretches. He takes a cursory glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror, noting the shades of blue impressionist bruises circled around his eyes and the edges of his nose; a bastardised Starry Night, He tongues his puffy, scabbed bottom lip, can still taste metallic over the wound. It isn’t the worst he’s ever looked, but with Timmy watching him from the passenger seat, this sober Armie is lamenting his unchecked impulse to throw a punch.

The summer heat makes the inside of the car humid and swampy. Armie shifts through his center console to pull out a pack of cigarettes, sweat beading down his temple before he’s even turned the engine over. Skipping a shower might have been a bad idea but Timmy seems indifferent to the heat, despite his own sweating neck.

He peers into the console, curious. All he’ll find is a stack of cd cases, a handful of napkins, soy sauce packets from his favorite Thai place and maybe a few long-expired condoms.

“Fucking hell,” Armie curses under his breath; his lighter is missing. Timmy’s attention snaps up to him, curls bouncing. He wiggles the unlit cigarette pursed between his lips. S.O.S.

Timmy looks amused by his frustration, mouth tilted into a smirk. Wordlessly, he reaches out and takes the stick, placing it delicately against his own lip. He then fishes out an orange bic from his back pocket and lights up in one long, slow drag.

Armie puts the car in drive, gaze flicking between Timmy and the rearview mirror while he pulls away from the curb, watching how Timmy holds in the smoke, rolls down the window, and blows out. Then he hands the cigarette back. Armie’s, “thank you,” is a muttered afterthought as he takes it, wrestling his attention away from Timmy and onto the road.

They spend a good five minutes battling over what to listen to, Timmy hollering every time Armie takes his eyes away from the road to browse Spotify, and another few over where to eat.

“Breakfast food is an any time of the day meal.”

“It’s really not,” Timmy counters, animated about his position. He’s twisted in his seat to shout at Armie with his hands. “Once they stop making hash browns at Burger King--10:30 on the dot, F.Y.I.--then it’s time for lunch food. Let’s get burgers.”

“Oh, so society at large is dictated by Burger King’s menu schedule?” Armie asks as he inhales the final drag of his cigarette, ashing it a moment later in the tray under the AM/FM radio.

Timmy giggles, arms folded smugly over his chest. “Yes. I’m glad that we could make this a teachable moment for you.”

Armie turns left onto a main road. “Thank you for enlightening me.” He looks over at Timmy, considering. The innate desire to give the kid whatever he asks for is infuriating. Armie fights against it. “But we’re not having Burger King for lunch.”

“That’s okay. In-N-Out?”

“You have fast food on the brain.”

Timmy reaches over the center console and grabs hold of Armie’s bicep with both hands, excitedly shaking him. “In-N-Out!”

Armie glares down at him, his head pounding, but Timmy doesn’t stop chanting, assaulting him with that open, crooked smile. Eventually, Armie cracks one of his own.

“You’re relentless,” he laughs, and slips into the far lane to make a U-Turn. Timmy releases him, turning the radio knob on Rise Above by Black Flag before slumping back in his seat as they head towards the nearest In-N-Out Burger, down by the freeway.

Henry Rollins’ snarling voice tears through the speakers.

Old buildings and hot sidewalks and palm trees scroll by.

Armie feels sluggish, a bad combination of sore and hungover, but Timmy next to him looking out the window with his feet propped up on the dusty dash is a welcome dose of Vitamin C. He’s like fresh air despite the rolled down windows.

Armie steals glances at him through the side of his wayfarers while he drives. Twenty-four hours ago he was living under the assertion that Timmy was a waste of time, had even taken strides to forget him. And yet here he is, having fully wormed his way back into Armie’s good graces with the whole candy striper act last night.

And then they’d slept together; that was stupid.

He thinks back to waking up in the middle of the night to Timmy breathing slow and even against his face, his fingers curled loosely into the neck of Armie’s t-shirt. That’s when he’d sat up and pulled it off, suddenly overheating. Timmy against his skin wasn’t any better, temperature wise, but he was soft.

The groggy two-second kiss this morning was a hallucination as far as Armie’s concerned. Never to be mentioned again, god willing. Because even though Timmy may not be a complete write-off, he still has a boyfriend. And Armie is _still_ not playing that game.

“Why do you shave your head?” Timmy’s voice breaks up the train of thought chugging through Armie’s mind.

His expression tweaks with incredulity. They brake at a stoplight and he turns to Timmy. “Why do you let your hair do that?” He gestures broadly.

Timmy takes mild offense, pulling at a defined curl corkscrewing out of his temple. “What’s _that_?”

“You know.” Armie draws a scribble in the air with his hand. “That.”

Timmy slaps away his hand, trying to bite down a smile. “You’re mean,” he says, and Armie rolls his eyes, decidedly fond.

“Shut up.”

-

“Wait, wait, wait.” Armie presses his palm against Timmy’s chest to stop him from walking towards the restaurant once they’re parked. He gives Timmy a nudge with his elbow, encouraging him to step back. His keys jingle as he unlocks the trunk, his bruised right hand tender as he pushes it open. “My fucked up face and the blood on your shirt? Someone’s gonna call the cops.”

He folds down, rifling through the leftover mess of moving his entire life two states south in a tiny sedan. Eventually he straightens back up, and presents Timmy with a rolled black t-shirt, marked with an XL in blue painters’ tape. “Put this on.”

Timmy must follow his logic because he nods and obliges without a word. He pulls his shirt off over his head without ceremony and, despite temptation, Armie looks away, waiting until he hears Timmy clear his throat.

 _Drive Like I Do_ is scrawled over Timmy’s sternum in white lettering. They both take a beat to read the graphic, but then Timmy is heading for the door and Armie opts to momentarily shelve his angst over seeing Timmy wearing his band’s shirt in favor of getting lunch.

It’s busy inside, because when is it not? The parking lot of an In-N-Out is just as happening at noon as it is at one in the morning.

They step into the long line and Armie catches more than one person mid-appraisal of him during their wait. He considers what they might be thinking; if they’re looking at Timmy next to him and surmising them to be a disagreeable match.

“People are looking at you,” Timmy says through the side of his mouth, standing at Armie’s back with his phone in hand.

Armie unconsciously squares his shoulders, taking up even more space in the room. “I’m six-five,” he shrugs, “And they’re looking at you too, pretty boy.”

Timmy doesn’t say anything to that, just looks at him for a long moment before the employee at the register calls them forward. Timmy orders a double-double and fries, plus a large strawberry milkshake. Armie gets a 4x4 animal-style, fries, and a water then pays with his credit card before Timmy can conjure his wallet from a back pocket.

Armie slips Timmy the receipt with their number for safe-keeping, but Timmy hands it back, tells him that he needs to pee.

“Have fun,” Armie nods. Timmy pulls a face and wheezes awkwardly as he hurries off.

Armie slides into a booth against the window, the sun radiating against the glass and illuminating the restaurant. The A/C is kicking but the sunlight still burns against the side of his face.

Two brats by the soda fountain are screaming to their father about which soda to get. Someone dumps a basket of fries on a woman in a motorized scooter when they try to steal a booth. Society is a nightmare.

Armie runs his fingers over the split, bruised knuckles of his other hand, thinking on the night before. Maybe he should call Zazie when he gets back home. She left in a huff over his macho bullshit, but they’d fucked pretty good right after the show, so maybe there’s something yet to salvage.

Then his eyes snag on Timmy making his way over from across the floor and any thought of Zazie dissolves. Timmy smiles when their gazes connect and Armie’s heart does a somersault. The band shirt he’d given him is two sizes too big, it hangs off of his back, his thin arms swimming in its sleeves.

Armie is confronted by an image of Timmy wearing just the shirt and nothing else, and climbing over into his lap. He shakes the intrusive fantasy from himself, plastering on a neutral expression when Timmy takes a seat across from him.

And that’s what really unsettles him about this guy. Not the invisible boyfriend, but the honest truth that Armie has no say in how he feels about him. It’s the loss of control that scares him.

-

Eventually their food arrives and the entire room shifts into a more palatable hue. The volume is muffled on the sea of whiny children and the droning adults. The sun tones down its glare.

Armie moans, teeth sinking into his 4x4, into the actual best fast food burger in the United States. Its taste signifies that he is really, truly back home.

He’s having a moment, eyes closed, tongue licking over the smears of animal-style sauce at the corner of his mouth. It might not be the best choice for fresh lacerations, but it’s so fucking worth it. He tears off another chunk and opens his eyes to find Timmy staring at him, frozen, mouth hanging open.

“Jesus Christ,” Timmy muses, shaking his head before taking a bite of his double-double. A much smaller, cleaner bite than what Armie was just doing to his burger.

Armie sucks sauce and grease off his thumb. “What?”

“You look like you belong in those old burger commercials. The ones that were basically porn.”

Armie narrows his eyes. “Don’t objectify me.” He takes another sloppy bite, flashing Timmy a wide, close-lipped smile.

There are a few minutes of silence while they do damage on their food.

Once Armie has put away his burger, he slows down on his fries and leans back, gazing over Timmy’s entirety. Maybe it’s the sunlight crashing through the window, or maybe it’s because he’s sober, but Armie had no idea how green Timmy’s eyes were. Pretty boy, indeed. “So, what’s your deal?”

Timmy laughs around a mouthful of food. “What?”

“You know, life story. Where are you from? Where did you go to school? Fucking--hopes and dream. I don’t know.” Armie could cringe at his own sincerity but he genuinely wants to know more about this kid; this thin-waisted, kinda cocky, kinda sweet kid that has somehow managed to infiltrate his friend group while he was gone. Everyone seems to adore him, but Armie doesn’t know how he should feel. Not yet.

“I’ll give you the abridged version,” Timmy says, but pauses to take a long drag of milkshake through his straw. The inside band of his lips are shiny and pastel when he pulls off; Armie can almost taste the strawberry. “Moved here for college five-ish years ago, graduated from the UCLA art program. Uh...” He reaches to scratch at the back of his head, “Yeah so, I liked it and decided to stay. I want to be a photographer full-time but I’m still working on a decent portfolio. In the meantime, Whole Foods pays the bills.” He shrugs with a cheeky smile. “Sometimes.”

Armie digests what Timmy's telling him, a picture taking shape in his mind of who Timmy is, becoming more defined. He’d denied himself asking about Timmy in detail when he was around their shared friends. At the time it was because he didn’t want to care but now he’s glad he waited. Information like this is always better from the source.

“Where are you from?” Armie asks as he pops another fry in his mouth. Timmy perks up, his chest swelling with pride, like he’s been waiting to be asked.

“New York City, baby.”

Armie nearly chokes on his french fry. Timmy stiffens and kicks at his foot under the table. “What the fuck’s so funny?”

“New York. That explains everything.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

Armie leans across the table. “Like why you’re such an asshole,” he teases. Timmy shoots him a dirty look more adorable than it is biting, throwing a fry at him for good measure. Armie laughs, loud and boisterous.

“So fucking mean,” Timmy says, repeating the sentiment from earlier. Armie just picks up the weaponized fry and chomps it down.

They talk for a while longer, even after their food is gone and Timmy’s milkshake has melted into soup. Armie tells him about moving up to Washington to help with his dad and brother’s furniture business when his brother got into a skiing accident but that he’d rather kill himself than continue to live a corporate lifestyle now.

As Armie talks, he can’t decipher the expression on Timmy’s face and after a few minutes, it gets to him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Timmy’s eyes get bigger and he shuffles down the cushion of the booth, only visible from the chest up. He starts chewing on his lip and Armie zeroes in on him, wetting his own mouth instinctively as he watches Timmy’s.

“Nothing. No reason.” Timmy's blushing.

“Dude.”

“It’s just — I already knew all that stuff about you. Everyone talks about you, tells stories.” Timmy shrugs, looking sheepish. “I’ve been listening to people talk about you for a year.”

Armie blinks, unable to process what he’s saying. “So that night, when you walked in on me taking a piss...you already knew who I was?”

“Kind of,” Timmy admits, making nervous steeples out of his fingers. Armie wishes he didn’t fucking look _like that_ when he’s blushing; it makes it nearly impossible to think straight.

He manages to redirect his brain, just barely. “So you walked in on me on purpose.”

Timmy looks like he wants the ground to swallow him. “No!”

“You’re a freak,” Armie says, but he’s grinning. He reaches over the table to jab Timmy in the shoulder, who loosens up into laughter once his mortification wears off.

“So then, tell me. Am I anything like you expected?”

Timmy shakes his head and Armie doesn’t ask for him to elucidate. Some things are better left unknown.

Silence thickens between them while Armie mulls over the notion that Timmy had crafted an image of him in his mind before they first met, but he doesn’t turn the thought over long because suddenly Timmy is throwing down a trump card all in one rushed breath.

_“I broke up with Ansel.”_

Armie stares, a cold french fry dangling precariously between his fingertips while his brain reboots. He raises both of his eyebrows, bites the fry and swallows before he gives Timmy anything back, surprise plain to see on his face. Honestly, he was starting to disbelieve in this so-called boyfriend’s existence (or maybe he just wanted it to be a lie) but now he had a name.

“What the fuck kind of name is Ansel?” is all he can offer, for starters.

“Says the guy named _Armand,_ ” Timmy chuckles and Armie feels a little weird that he knows so much, but nods. Fair enough.

Reining in his own unauthorized giddiness at this turn of events, he carefully looks Timmy over, wondering how best to approach the situation. How genuine will Armie sound if he asks Timmy how he’s dealing, knowing that he’s tried to suck his dick twice now. But he is horribly curious about what’s changed between last night and now, and despite his mild concern about staying in his own lane, he presses Timmy for more.

“So, last night you had a boyfriend...and woke up this morning without one. How does that work?” Armie can’t help but fret that he might have had a warm, boyfriendless Timmy curled up against him last night and didn’t seize the opportunity.

Timmy suddenly can’t sit still — not that he really has since they arrived, but now he’s legitimately squirming. Shifting, hands running through his hair, cupping his chin, crossing his arms, uncrossing them.

“I — uh. I sent a break up text this morning.”

Armie clicks his tongue, impressed. Breaking up via text is cold-hearted. Unexpected from Timmy, who Armie would characterize as warm and affable from the short time he’s known him.

How long had they been dating? What was the final straw? What was Timmy’s intention in telling him any of this? And why the fuck does he even care?

Armie has a lot of questions, but the majority of them are for himself. A flood of internal struggles inundate him as the news of Timmy’s break-up sinks in. He’d been able to check some of the more foreign feelings that’d crept in by telling himself that Timmy was spoken for but now...

Armie realizes that it’s been a moment since anyone’s said anything and wades above his dissension to appear at ease.

“Poor guy,” he sighs softly. “Should have known better than to date a New Yorker.”

-

The ride to drop Timmy off at his apartment is quieter than the ride over. They’re both full and feeling the events of last night. Armie’s headache is becoming oppressive. He needs a nap, bath, wank.

Timmy fishes into one of his cup holders, fingers plucking out a purple plastic egg. He hedges a glance at Armie but doesn’t say anything, shoulders slumping forward as he fidgets with it, unscrewing and rescrewing the top.

“What is that?” Armie asks after a second, eyeing the goop that oozes out over Timmy’s fingernails. He’s never seen it before.

“Chapstick,” Timmy says airily, quickly closing the egg back up once he realized that it’s melted. He drops it back into the cup holder then pins his hands under his thighs.

Armie almost asks out loud why the fuck there’s a chapstick egg in his car but catches himself, realizing that Zazie must have left it yesterday. Unfortunately, Timmy seems to have put that together without his help.

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive, until Armie pulls into a loading zone to let him out in front of his apartment. It is one of a clustered grouping of identical buildings at the corner of a city block, all of them dark green with brown trim and beige doors. They remind Armie of his place in Washington. Nondescript.

“Thanks for the ride,” Timmy says, and part of Armie wants to laugh, but he refrains, nodding.

“No worries.”

Timmy’s hand curls around the car door handle, but he doesn’t wing it open.

Armie’s gaze slides over. “Is it jammed again? I can let you out.” He starts to unbuckle his seat belt and Timmy stops him.

His face is pale with nerves. “Do you want to come over?”

“I already am over,” Armie says dumbly, and Timmy shakes his head, clearing both of their words from the air between them.

“That’s not--later. I mean, do you want to come over later? I have work in an hour.”

Oh. Armie opens his mouth to answer, but his brain’s connection speed is slow.

Timmy swings open the car door. “Fuck. Sorry. That’s a bad idea. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Timmy is self-destructing and Armie can’t watch his 180 stumble. He snags Timmy’s flailing wrist before he’s out of the car, pulling him back down into the seat. Timmy falls into a long-limbed puddle, staring resolutely at the glove compartment.

Armie soothes the air with a soft breath. He swabs his tongue over the tear in his upper lip. “Let me think about it. What time are you off work?”

Timmy turns, looks up at him from under pinched brows and thick lashes. “I’ll be home by eight-thirty.”

“Eight-thirty,” Armie repeats, giving himself time to make up his mind, but it isn’t enough. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Okay,” Timmy says, a little more evenly. “We could take a look at the photos I shot last night.”

Armie waters the seedling of his smile. “That could be cool.”

“Yeah. So just come by after eight-thirty. If you want.” He climbs out of the car, folding back into the open window. “And if not, no big deal. Seriously.”

Armie can’t help his soft reply. “Okay.”

His eyes follow Timmy up the path to his complex, his body leaning forward to watch the movement of Timmy’s hips, the unnecessarily long strides of his legs. Timmy brushes his long curls to the side as he turns around, grinning when he catches Armie’s gaze on him. He waves and Armie shakes his head, a smile burned across his face.

-

The first thing Armie does when he gets home is face plant into bed. He needs a fucking nap but as soon as his head hits the pillow, he realizes the blankets are still tangled from his sleepover with Timmy. He breathes in and exhales a long, “fuuuck,” because the pillow still smells like him. Why was everything about this kid so warm and stimulating?

So the second thing he does is jerk off until he comes, messing all over his stomach. He wipes up with his shirt and throws it into his makeshift hamper that’s really just a plastic crate.

Then he sleeps. It’s good sleep, too. Except that he must have opened his scabbed lip at some point because when he wakes up there’s blood smeared on his pillow and crusted to his skin.

Eventually, Armie needs to clean up. He opts for a bath instead of a shower, because all his life he’s always been too big for a standard tub but Dakota used her bonus from work last winter to splurge on a stand alone, deep soak basin and _damn_ , it’s nice. Armie isn’t sure how he’s going to forgo baths once he eventually lines up his own place.

He soaks for a while, knees bent up, water scalding hot against his skin, turning him pink. His eyes are closed while Against Me! blares from the speakers of his phone and there’s a hand towel that Dakota will end up yelling at him for using tucked under his neck for support. He tries to keep his mind blank but without the blanket of deep sleep to hide under, he’s faced with the persistent question of whether or not he should see Timmy tonight.

The possibility of it is a jolt to Armie’s system, his hips shifting as he tries _not_ to react; it definitely doesn’t help that he came so hard earlier thinking about Timmy in his band’s shirt, utilizing that fantasy of him crawling into his lap from earlier. His cock twitches under the water but before Armie can decide on what to do with himself, the music goes quiet, interrupted by his ringtone.

He grabs his phone, wet hand and all, and slides the icon to answer. It’s Jack from work.

“Jack,” Armie answers, settling back down into the water and closes his eyes again. “What’s up?”

Jack’s accent is garbled like he’s already had a drink or four. Every word slides out on an Irish lilt. “Where the hell are you, man? It’s boring as shit over here. Come have a few pints.”

Armie can hear distorted music in the background and a few loud voices fading in and out. Jack lives in a neighborhood thriving with bars and swanky, hip restaurants. He’s probably been on a one-man bar crawl all afternoon.

“Mm, I don’t think so. I got into it last night with some prick and my face is all fucked up. I think I’m just going to —”

“A fist fight?” Jack cuts him off, his voice edged with what sounds like disappointment, probably due to missing out. “So what? Don’t be a little bitch, Hammer. Come get a drink. First two rounds are on me.”

Armie laughs, shaking his head, water sloshing up the sides of the tub. He sighs and declines again.

Jack isn’t having it.

“There’s only two acceptable reasons to bail on free drinks. One, if it’s your mam's birthday.”

“Or?”

“Two, if you're guaranteed a ride.”

“A what?”

“Sex, you American idiot.”

Armie laughs again and it makes his face ache. His voice fades as he transitions into a sigh. Jack, even drunk, picks up on the shift in tone.

“What’s going on, man? Come on, come out for a drink.”

“I can’t.” He’s mentally kicking himself for saying anything, but his brain is too run down to think up a quick excuse. “I, uh, I might be doing something later.”

“So it's reason two?” Armie can hear Jack smiling through the phone.

“Yes. No — it’s not like that,” Armie lies. “He’s just...a friend.” It’s the first time Armie’s referred to Timmy as anything other than an enigma, and to give their whateverthefuck they are a verbal title feels weird. Wrong. Right. He can’t decide.

“It’s not like that,” Jack repeats, disbelief and doubt clear in his mocking tone. “Is he hot?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like that.”

“I’m calling bullshit. What are you and your _friend_ going to do then?”

Armie considers calling Jack a nosy fuck but the opportunity to talk about Timmy with someone that doesn’t know him overrides his inclination to be an asshole.

“Look at some photos he took of last night’s show. He’s a photographer.”

Jack’s laugh booms through the phone so loudly that Armie has to pull the receiver away from his ear. He grumbles while he waits for Jack to contain his drunken amusement. Armie knows what it sounds like, so he gets it, but goddamnit.

“Okay, so some fine ass dude asks you to come look at, his fucking, I don’t know — rock collection or some shit, but you’re just friends and you’re not going to fuck?”

“Right.”

“You’re stupid,” Jack states blatantly in the way a caring friend should.

“And you’re a nosy fuck.”

The music gets louder. It sounds like Jack is on the move. He’s still laughing through the phone and when he winds down, he clicks his tongue.

“Alright, man. Well if you change your mind — otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy not getting fucked.”

Armie hangs up, rolling his eyes, already preparing for the shit he’s going to get from Jack at work in the morning.

-

He spends another hour at home after his bath, watching mindless television, making quesadillas for dinner, smoking a joint afterward. He’s almost convinced himself that he’s going to skip on Timmy. There are plenty of reasons not to go, but the more he thinks about it the more he realizes that Jack is right, even if he doesn’t have all of the facts.

There’s something about Timmy that Armie is drawn to, and without a boyfriend, as long as he remains careful, there isn’t really any harm in hanging out again. They’re both adults and behind all of the teasing, they do get along. Same taste in musical genre. Same taste in friends, in drugs. Plus, Armie _is_ interested to see what Timmy shot of DLID at their show. He’d been caught up playing but had clocked Timmy flitting about the stage more than once, camera obscuring his face.

What the hell.

Once he’s made up his mind about going, time slows to a tedious crawl. Armie takes care of the dishes in the sink and changes into his usual black shirt, black jeans uniform and still has nearly an hour to go before Timmy’s home from work.

Still tired, he fishes out Dakota’s frozen bag of peas and lays on the couch with it resting on his face until the alarm on his phone signals that it’s time to leave.

Locating his wallet and keys, Armie is grateful that Dakota hasn’t come home yet, that he won’t have to lie about what he’s up to, which inspires him; the only stipulation he places on his spending time with Timmy tonight is that Dakota doesn’t find out, or anyone for that matter. It would only stir up shit. The last thing he needs is ex-boyfriend drama and some guy named fucking _Ansel_ out for blood when he’s just getting situated back home.

-

Armie’s unbruised fist hovers in front of the painted wood. He looks around, back out onto the street, trying to rewind the day and remember where his car had been hugging the curb. Before or after the cypress trees.

Is this the right place?

The blinds are down and Armie had been looking at Timmy when he climbed the steps to let himself inside his apartment earlier, not taking detailed notes of which building he went into. They all look the same.

Two older women walking a terrier give him the evil eye from the sidewalk, their dog yapping in his direction.

Armie looks the door straight on, re-plants his feet on the plain mat, re-grips his fingers into a fist, and knocks.

The door opens just as his knuckles make contact. Timmy is revealed, wearing a black, oversized sweater with a scoop collar that showcases his narrow throat and a pair of small, black track shorts, two white stripes on each side. Armie knows how long Timmy's legs are, but seeing them all pale and lightly covered in soft, dark downy hair is almost aggravating. He has his hair pushed back in headband, like he did the one time Armie encountered him at work. The lack of curls around his eyes makes his face angled and sharp. Explicitly masculine.

Armie scowls at him. “Were you waiting behind the door this whole time?”

“This whole time...” Timmy parrots, stressing each word, laughter bubbling up. “People were going to start thinking you were an Amazon package, you were out there for so long.”

“I didn’t know which fucking building was yours,” Armie says through clenched teeth. He can feel the tips of his ears burning pink.

Timmy steps back, ushering Armie inside. “Good guess, come in come in.”

Armie walks over the threshold, looking around. The inside of Timmy’s apartment is white walls and wood floors, mismatched frames holding art and a few upholstered armchairs. His belongings are mounded up in a few spots, yellowed books and pairs of shoes. Everything his eyes land on feels loved.

He fishes for a safe topic, already untrusting of himself alone with Timmy in his space. “So, how was work?”

“Worky. Somebody bought olive oil, two eggplants, and a pack of sheepskin condoms. That’s it.”

“Funny,” Armie huffs. He feels too big in Timmy’s intimate front room, surrounded by house plants and towers of books and Timmy’s bed pushed against the far wall.

Awkwardness rolls over them like a summer storm, blue skies going dark. He’s out of his depth, never having put himself in a situation like this. Timmy wasn’t just someone he wanted to fuck or befriend, and Armie didn’t have experience with a hybrid of the two. His hookups were usually alcohol-fueled and clean cut, and his friendships either evolved naturally or not at all. There was a push-pull whenever Timmy and he are put into the same room that he can’t figure out how to navigate.

When Armie turns his eyes on Timmy, he’s looking directly at his mouth. Armie’s awareness shifts to its dull, swollen ache. He doesn’t know what to say.

Thankfully, Timmy spares them any further distress.

“Let me show you the darkroom. The negatives from last night should be almost done drying.”

Armie blows out a long breath, nodding. “Lead the way.”

-

Timmy’s bed being in the living room makes sense once they’ve travelled to the back of the apartment. He’s converted the single bedroom into a makeshift darkroom. There are heavy, light-blocking curtains hung over the windows and an assortment of Ikea desks set up in a maze throughout the space, each of them adorned with equipment, and gray plastic tubs, and boxes of photography paper.

Timmy has pictures hanging from clothespins and string like Armie’s seen in the movies. He shuts the door behind them once they’re inside and pulls down a collection of negative strips. “Here they are,” he says, “I haven’t looked at how they came out yet.”

They don’t look like anything to Armie, just ribbons of film, but he’s already impressed. “Cool. So now what?”

Timmy squints at each tiny square on one strip. “Usually I put them in sleeves and look them all over, but let’s just pick one and put it in a carrier to see what’s up.”

Armie doesn’t even pretend to know what that means. “Okay.”

Timmy motions to a pair of scissors on the table and Armie hands them over. He cuts off one square and fits it into a small, metal device, then fits that onto something larger.

After fiddling with the bigger machine for a second, an image appears. Armie drifts closer to see.

It’s Dakota, singing into her mic, mouth wide and eyes shut. She looks powerful, and yet still delicate, her hair one giant silky wave that obscures a blurred silhouette of Armie’s drumkit in the background.

“Fuck,” Armie marvels, without any veneer, “this is exactly her. It’s...it’s great.”

Timmy’s face tilts so that he can look sideways at Armie. There is a smile lifting his cheeks. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and hunches back down.

Timmy adjusts the focus on the projector with Armie stood behind him, observing over his shoulder. He raises and lowers the enlarger, adjusting the focusing wheel until the projected image of Dakota singing appears crisp on the table top. Every movement is practiced and sure, no wasted nervous energy.

“You’re good at this,” Armie comments, and Timmy stops working, lets go of the projector. He straightens away from the table, and after another second of stillness, turns in the small space to face him.

Armie’s mouth opens to say something, but the searching, serious expression Timmy is wearing stops him.

Then, slowly, allowing Armie more than enough time to halt his advance, Timmy raises an arm, and molds his hand to Armie’s cheek, thumbprint kissing the bruise underneath his eye.

He’s looking for something on Armie’s face, and his eyes are beautiful, soft in the dim greyscale of the room. They shift into a heavy-lidded stare when Armie’s hand settles at Timmy’s waist. And then he’s lifting up onto his toes and closing in, their noses brushing before their mouths do.

Something poorly-made inside of Armie snaps and he brings Timmy flush against him with a hand around the back of his neck.

“Armie,” Timmy sighs, and his name sounds like relief.

His kisses are gentle, like his hands cupping Armie’s face without really touching him. Urgency sizzles behind each languid recoupling of their mouths, heaviest in Armie’s grip around Tim’s ribs.

Armie slips his tongue past Timmy’s teeth and Timmy groans, hands curling into fists behind Armie’s ears.

“I’m not gonna break,” Armie whispers.

“But your face. You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he promises, and pushes aside a tub of fixer behind Timmy to illustrate, lifting Timmy up and setting him on the table, stepping between his knees when they automatically open wide for him.

Armie makes a fist out of the bouquet of curls at the back of Timmy’s head and tugs, letting his lips drop from his pouty, open mouth to taste the salty sweetness of his throat. His fingers slide up into his hair until the tips catch on his headband and Armie pulls it out, dropping it to the ground, freeing the curls every which way as he bites down at the joining of Timmy’s neck and shoulder.

“Shit,” Timmy breathes, shifting suddenly, his voice an octave higher as he cants his hips and tightens his knees against his backside. “Do that again.”

Armie rolls thin skin between his teeth at the curve where throat meets clavicle and Timmy’s response is heavenly, his head dropping back, a low, mewling growl urging Armie onward. Timmy leans back in, one hand gripping the back of Armie’s neck, realigning their mouths, the other palming it’s way between Armie’s thighs to where he is aggressively hard.

Timmy keens instantly, pulling Armie so fully against him that Armie has to reach out to balance himself. His hand slips and knocks over a tray of solution.

“Oh fuck!” Armie pulls off and Timmy jumps down from the table before it can spread under him. He makes quick work of cleaning it up, grabbing a spare rag to absorb the mess before it can do much damage. Armie just stands there, useless, until it’s done and they’re both just standing in the space, panting and dizzy and probably still hard.

“Occupational hazard,” Timmy offers timidly, his lips still plump and shining from their kiss. Armie wants more but the moment has passed.

“Yeah, no shit. Maybe we should hit pause.” Armie takes a second, holding his breath before a slow exhale. Timmy looks concerned and he realizes how that sounds. He smiles gently. “For now.”

-

Timmy sleeves his negatives and they head back out into the main room, setting up at a small, bar height table next to the kitchen to look over them.

Armie is able to breathe easier out here, sat across from Timmy in full light. His body is still strung tight with want, but it’s more manageable now that he has a little distance.

They review a few strips together, and almost every shot is dynamic and compelling. Dev illuminated from above with his head down, a close up of his thin fingers against the body of his bass. Dakota looking back with the ghost of a smile. Armie even likes the photos he’s in, which is a rarity. His face does heat up when looking at a few, where Timmy’s eye feels almost voyeuristic, intimate even, but they are objectively skilled.

-

When they come up for air from the photos, and one or two harmless arguments about music, it is after eleven o’clock.

Armie stretches, straightening out his spine and shoulders. “Shit, it’s getting late and I have work in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Timmy says, mouth pulling wide with a yawn. “Let me walk you out.”

They slide off their stools and stand, but it isn’t awkward. They’ve proven that they can co-exist sober today, with only one minor indiscretion that Armie counts as being within his self-perscribed guidelines. His plan for the evening was to get to know Timmy better, and to be mindful of his fresh break-up, to keep from letting his libido get the best of him. And he’s done that, their darkroom makeout session notwithstanding.

-

Unfortunately, somewhere between Timmy’s front door and where his car is parked just down the block, Armie’s designs to keep it PG-rated for the evening start to fall apart.

-

The air is sticky with late night summer humidity that’s making Armie’s shirt feel like it’s melting into his skin. Despite the discomfort, he relishes in the heat, had missed it during his time up north. Black skies and warm weather just held in them a certain kind of ease.

“Thanks for coming by,” Timmy says a soft smile, his elbow bent as he holds the back of his own neck, swaying like there’s more he wants to say, but never following through. Armie nods, shoving his hand into his front pocket to retrieve his keys.

Timmy’s cliffhanger goodbye echoes the strange ache in Armie’s gut that makes him feel like he can’t leave yet; everything with this kid feels like unfinished business.

“The photos are sick. I can’t wait to see the rest,” he praises, stalling. Timmy is talented, that’s for sure. And after talking and hanging with him tonight, Armie has concluded that he’s smart as hell, too. It’s starting to make sense, why his friends are attracted to him--Dakota especially. He can see an intense, kindred passion in them both.

Timmy’s wild curls are covering his face, his chin angled down. He doesn’t take Armie’s compliments directly but his smile is enough. Armie chuckles, spinning his keys around one finger.

“Well, you should probably get going.” Timmy’s voice sounds almost like a directive, and it makes Armie bristle. Why? What if he didn’t get going? It was clear they both weren’t ready to say goodnight.

He knows that he’s working on impulse before he speaks, has time to reel himself in with the reminder that this has gone well, that he’d be able to sleep tonight knowing that drama wasn’t brewing because he’d been led around by his dick.

But fuck it.

“I was going to smoke on the drive home but, uh. If you’re up for it, we can split a joint in the car?” Armie nods with his shoulder, voice light and easy, giving Timmy the option to decline. There’s a j in his glove compartment waiting to be smoked.

Timmy entire face lights up at the suggestion, and a moment later they’re both crawling into the cramped backseat of his sedan, good intentions be damned.

-

The air is thick with smoke.

Armie isn’t generally a fan of hotboxing, but he likes the way the drugs and heat are making his head spin. They act as a scapegoat, letting him convince himself that Timmy doesn’t _actually_ have much of an effect on him. And it’s a lie — he knows it, but when his body is stoned and floating, it is easier to pretend because Armie hasn’t been able to stop looking at him since they climbed in the car. Proximity, it seems, is an issue when it comes to Tim.

They soak in smoke for almost an hour, getting high, laughing, fighting over what to listen to. Armie’s phone is almost dead because music has been quietly pouring from it; Timmy convinced him to put on Kid Cudi and he doesn’t hate it.

Work is going to be a nightmare in the morning, but that’s for tomorrow-Armie to deal with, and it won’t be the worst of his problems.

“I want to suck your cock,” he spills out, apropos of nothing, joint roach pinched between his fingers. He takes the final hit before ashing into an empty In-N-Out cup from earlier. Timmy is in slow-motion beside him, his smile stretching to each side of his narrow face when Armie’s aspiration slips into his ear. Armie wants to touch him and realizes that there’s nothing to stop him.

His hand is already sliding up Timmy’s bare thigh, cupping his hard-on, easily defined through his thin track shorts. “It’s the least I can do....since you’re all torn up about your breakup.” Armie squeezes. “ _Clearly._ ”

Timmy’s head falls back against the headrest, rolling from right to left. His mouth is pulled tight, tongue flicking over his bottom lip. There’s a high flush to his cheeks visible even in the dispersed light from a nearby lamppost.

“Armie,” Timmy sighs, sounding almost pained by the proposal. He lifts his hips and arches his back, sloppy and eager, and yanks down his shorts. He’s wearing nothing underneath and his cock bounces free against his belly, and then his thigh and Armie growls, impatient to get his face between Timmy’s slender legs. “Fuck — yeah. Please. Just, put your fucking mouth on me already.”

Timmy is already squirming, even though Armie hasn’t really touched him. He likes the way that feels, seeing Timmy at his mercy. Armie wants a taste of his desperation and, unwilling to waste a moment more, dives in, his lips skating against Timmy’s neck in a slippery kiss before he slides down the seat and onto his knees. It’s cramped and he barely fits, but Timmy assists by scooting back against the door, lifting a leg up to stretch out against the entirety of the backseat, while Armie folds out almost diagonally, leaning over him.

Timmy scrunches his oversized sweater up to his chest, his other hand wrapped around the base of his cock in anticipation. Holding it steady. Armie grins with a focused hunger.

“I knew you'd have a pretty cock.”

“Fuck off,” Timmy huffs humorously, “ _Please,_ ” he twists his wrist, head thumping against the window. “Mouth. Now.”

Armie grins at the fact that Timmy has already been reduced to single-word responses, and then he gets down to it, because god forbid the universe stop Armie from blowing him a third time.

As comfortable as he’s going to get, he replaces Timmy’s hand with his own, awed by seeing his cock in own grip, and slowly guides the tip over his tongue.

Timmy tastes as good as he looks, but he sounds even better. Armie’s barely laving his tongue against the head of him and already Timmy is whining and cursing above him. When Armie takes him all the way in, down to the root, gagging only until he adjusts, Timmy begins mumbling his name over and over, sounding half-mad.

Giving a blow job while his lip is split open and scabbed is a stupid fucking idea but the pain is an easy trade for Timmy’s reactions. Whimpers and swears, and restless fingers at the back of his neck.

“ _Armie._ ” His name is a soft sound that Armie wouldn’t mind hearing more than once. His left hand spans out, engulfing almost the entirety of Timmy’s thigh, thumb pressing into tensed muscle and massaging circles that make Timmy wriggle on the seat. His right hand strokes the slicked base of his cock, following the sliding rhythm of his mouth, his hollowed cheeks creating a wet _popping_ sound every time he reaches the tip, only to sink right back down and swallow him again.

Timmy’s gripping the headrest with one hand and the back collar of Armie’s shirt with the other, his pelvis pushing upward more persistently with each passing moment.

“Your fucking plush, warm mouth,” Timmy mutters, gripping tighter, hips rutting faster. “It’s killing me, _god._ Fuck...yeah....”

Armie can feel the sheen of sweat layering Timmy’s skin, appreciating the taste of salt and bitter, the musk from his pubic hair. Everything about him is intoxicating, which makes some distant part of Armie nervous. He’s tried just about every drug on the market at least once, and few have been as dangerous as Timmy feels, or as habit-forming.

Soon, Armie recognizes Timmy’s haggard, tell-tale breathing, and the tremble in his thighs for what it is. He knows what’s about to happen, even if Timmy can’t articulate, bleeding out moans. Armie looks up, wishes he could photograph the way he looks right now, a mess of base desire, entirely id. He cups Timmy’s balls and presses back with his palm to swallow as much of Timmy’s cock as he can to drive him over the the edge.

“ _Oh fuck!—_ ”

Armie’s already pulled his mouth off, covering just the tip of his dick to suck him dry, his hand slowly stroking out Timmy’s orgasm directly into his mouth, over his tongue, painting his swollen lips.

Timmy shovels in breath like he’s just competed in the Olympics, both of his hands scrubbing over Armie’s buzzed hair while he comes back down, grounded by the simple motion of it. “That was…” he sighs.

Armie laughs, his cheek resting against the top of Timmy’s thigh.“Overdue?”

“Really fucking good,” Timmy amends, and Armie will take that. “Come here.”

“I am here. My car’s too small for this shit.” But he shifts anyway, putting a knee down on the seat, crouching over when Timmy guides him in with a fist in the front of his shirt. They kiss lazily, Timmy tasting himself, and blood, he says.

“Your mouth is never going to heal at this rate.”

Armie grins, nipping Timmy in their next kiss. “Worth it.”

 

-

**_but you're losing your words_ **

**_we're speaking in bodies_ **

**_avoiding me and talking 'bout you_ **

**_but you're losing your turn_ **

**_i guess I'll never learn_ **

**_cause I stay another hour or two_ **


	5. heart out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends.  
> the response to this fic + comments etc are fucking,  
> e v e r y t h i n g.  
> k, enjoy!  
> (fictional, etc.)

“So I finally broke up with Ansel.”

Dakota slides rounded sunglasses down her nose, her shiny red mouth popping open in shock. “Timmy, you didn’t!”

Timmy smirks at her dramatics, taking a pull of beer. “I did.” It feels like a weight being lifted off his chest just saying it aloud, especially to Dakota who has been witness to their downslide for a while now.

He and Dakota are set up at the beach under a giant rainbow umbrella with white trim today, Dakota getting sun while Timmy reads, _The Book of Disquiet_ by Fernando Pessoa. A styrofoam cooler full of alcohol is half-buried in the sand between them and her iphone is playing in an empty bowl of pistachios to amplify the sound. The sweet summer purr of Best Coast radiates around them.

Dakota pushes herself up from a lounging position to sit cross-legged on her big, yellow beach towel so that she can properly face Timmy. She lifts her sunglasses all the way off her face, pinning her hair back with them, then gives him a thorough onceover, the kind that has barbs, that snares Timmy, rooting him in place.

“You didn’t do it for Armie though, right?” she asks.

The searching question catches Timmy off guard. Internally, he squirms, having expected an exasperated _Finally!_ or a sweet, sad smile and a hug--but not this. Externally, however, he just laughs and brushes sand from their towels. “What do you mean?”

Dakota rolls her eyes, shakes her head. “Oh come on. I’ve seen the way you look at him. Not to mention the night you slept together in my room, or, you know, the rumor that you spent twenty minutes in my bathroom with him the night you met. Also--”

Timmy almost panics. _Someone noticed that?_

He thrusts out an arm to cut her off. “I get it, I get it. Jesus.” He takes back his hand, combing through the salty tangles framing his face and succeeding only in getting sand in his hair. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t for Armie. Things have been bad for a long time, you know? I guess I just finally realized that there’s more keeping us apart than keeping us together.”

It’s a rough version of the narrative he’s been piecing together over the last few days, a speech that would explain his break-up to everyone in his life when the inevitable questions hit, and it’s true, mostly. Maybe the temptation that smacked him upside the head when he and Armie met helped in speeding up the inevitable, but time had eroded their relationship regardless, bit by bit. It just wasn’t until Timmy had a new vantage point that he’d been able to see just how much things had changed. How much he wanted it to change. To be over.

Dakota puts away her motherly concern and relaxes, clearly swayed by the honesty in Timmy’s words. But she hears what’s unsaid as well, and turns her head once she’s laid back down and untied the straps of her bikini to achieve an even tan.

“Okay, okay. Good,” she says on a long exhale. “If you want to rebound with Armie, I give you my blessing. But I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t warn you against hoping for anything more with that tall, beautiful moron. He just doesn’t know how to do the whole ‘relationship thing,’ as fucking cliché as it sounds.”

Repositioning himself so that he’s facing the beach, Timmy digs his feet into the hot sand and begins pulling scoopfuls over them, his imagination filling in all the reasons why she might think that. Was Armie a prick to the people he dated? Did he cheat? Did he just not care enough?

He strangles the musings in his mind with a change of topic before curiosity can mutate into worry. “What about you? How are things with Chris? Are you guys still hanging out, pretending to be ‘just friends’?”

Dakota shrugs, peeling open an old copy of Vogue. Her face gives nothing away. “He wants to go away for the weekend when I get back from this mini-tour thing.”

“What mini-tour?” Timmy asks, looking back at her over his shoulder, his legs buried up past their ankles in sand.

She snorts, spraying a sip of her RumCola can. “You didn’t know?” She lowers Vogue, smacking the cover against his thighs. “See! Case in point; Armie didn’t think to tell you that he’s going to be out of town. Bad boyfriend material.” She rolls her lips, shaking her long hair to the side and lifts the magazine back up. “We leave this Thursday. It’s like a fun South and West states crawl for a week and a half; dives and couch surfing most of the way. Dev booked it a while back, when we heard that Armie was going to finally be moving home.”

Timmy takes a second to finish a forgotten beer next to his hip. It’s warm but he gulps it down anyway, unaware, mind racing..

“That sounds cool,” he says with a sun-squinting smile, and she grazes him with another penetrating glance before fully tucking back into her Vogue.

The fact that Armie hasn’t deigned him important enough to mention that he’s going to be out of town shouldn’t bother Timmy--they’re not together--but it does, partially because he’s been aware of it since before they met and partially because of the unknown variables that touring creates.

Car accidents, drugs, shitheads spoiling for a fight.

Girls.

Boys.

Timmy isn’t naive enough to think that they’re anything to each other just because of what happened the other night in Armie’s car, or even the day they spent together that came before it, but the idea of Armie playing to crowds of people cooler than him, in those stupid, tiny shorts is unsettling. What if Armie gets bored of him already?

Dakota pointedly fills the sudden lull in conversation. “ _Mhm._ So. Tell me, how’d you break things off with Ansel?”

Timmy buttons his mouth, looking down the beach, hiding in a young couple’s volleyball game for a moment. He can feel his entire face heating up. And when he speaks, it’s quietly. “Sent him a text,” he mumbles.

Dakota slaps him full in the face with her magazine. “Timothée Hal Chalamet! No you did not!”

Timmy hisses, shoulders going up as he hunches, palms out in shame. Then he laughs, which pulls her up onto her feet, fingers flying to re-tie her top. She chases him all the way down to the water, kicking up sand in her wake and shoving him over into the waves when Timmy rounds on her with heartfelt pleas for mercy.

-

He doesn’t see Armie again before the band leaves on their mini-tour. They don’t even talk-- Timmy is working nights to cover for a coworker that’s out on vacation and Armie, well who knows what Armie is doing.

Timmy is folding laundry before his shift when a new post from the DLID page shows up at the top of his Instagram feed, alerting him of Armie’s departure on Thursday afternoon. It’s a high-contrast photo of Dev and Armie looking unamused next to a grinning Dakota, all three of them lined up in front of a large white van. It’s captioned simply: _It begins._ with hashtags for all of the cities they’ll be playing.

Timmy pinch-zooms on the photo, smiling to himself at their stupid matching Ray-Bans. Armie’s face is looking better, his bruises faded and yellow, the cuts on his mouth all but healed. That fucking mouth…

Flashes of Armie giving him head in the car pounce, getting him hard. He feeds a hand into his shorts, checking the clock and relieved to find that he has enough time for a quick jerk session before he needs to leave. But then a text drops down from the top of his screen. It’s another friend sending their regards about his break-up.

With a heavy sigh, he removes his hand, mood ruined, and goes back to folding clothes.

Word is getting around quickly now that he and Ansel have split up, and the texts are pouring in, most of them genuine but a few are from old hook-ups, testing the waters, checking in to see where he is on the grieving timeline, if he will be ready to fill up his roster with rebound dick appointments anytime soon.

If he were to jump a swipe or two down on the messages app, he’d find an entire slew of texts from Ansel, more than he’d received in the past six month combined. They range from lovesick and sorry to irate, because he has yet to respond. The voicemails, however, carry more of a common theme, soft and apologetic, and only a touch emotional if left late enough at night.

Timmy looks at his name sitting among a host of others, looking inconsequential. He chews his lip.

_Ansel_

It used to give him butterflies, the major kind. Until, slowly, over time it inspired less and less.

Now, it just makes him hurt.

He reads the preview of Ansel’s latest text, unwilling to click and see more.

Ansel:  
This feels wrong, Timmy. Please d...

There is a hole with ragged edges on the inside of his ribs that smarts, his heart dragging against it, asking to be let out of captivity. Timmy presses his thumb into the invisible whorl, eyes stinging, and turns off his phone.

-

After work, Timmy is still thinking about Ansel.

He doesn’t regret pulling the pin on their relationship, but that doesn’t mean that he’s emotionless about the whole thing. He misses him, and the safety that he represented. Ansel was going to be a doctor, and with that came a certain level of security. Timmy wasn’t afraid to throw himself down the poverty-stricken path of art and photography with Ansel, MD-In-Training, at his side.

It’s almost ten at night.

Timmy knows what it will look like, calling this late, but once he’s stripped off his black apron and collapsed sideways onto bed, his thumb searches out the angry red name that is stamped all over his missed calls.

It’s ringing before he pulls it to his ear, frozen by a bolt of fear once he sees the call lighting up his phone. He’s trembling, has to clutch the SE to keep from dropping it.

Ansel answers.

“Timmy,” he breathes, sounding happy and sad, and despite their break-up and the last few months, still a little bit like _home._ It gets Timmy, feels like someone is gently and insistently rending apart his ribcage like a wishbone, and without warning he begins to cry.

“Hello,” he manages, doing a poor job of keeping his voice even.

There is noise on the other end of the line, Ansel rearranging the phone against his ear. “I don’t want this,” he tells Timmy, “Whatever the issue is, I want to fix it.”

“I know…”

Ansel always wanted to fix things. It was why Timmy knew when they met as sophomores that becoming a doctor wasn’t just a passing fancy for him. It was what he’d been made for. Helping. _Fixing._ But he’d never been asked to fix something he’d also had a hand in breaking.

“What can I do? I’ve been putting too much emphasis on work, I realize that.”

“It’s always been like this,” Timmy sighs, head lolling back to trace out shapes in his popcorn ceiling. “Even in school. You prioritized classes and homework--which is fine. But I don’t want either of us pretending that it will ever change.”

“I can take a semester off.”

Timmy’s stomach ties itself into a knot. All of their fights and he’s never put that on the table. “Ansel, _no._ ”

“If that’s what it takes, I will. You mean---”

“No.”

Now it sounds like Ansel is crying, emotion threaded tight in his voice. “Tim. I love you.”

“I love you too.” It’s true. Even if it is worthless; love defeated. It is still love. “But it’s not just your schedule. We don’t...care about the same things anymore.”

Silence.

“Is this about your new friends?”

Timmy is gripped by a terrifying thought. _Does he know about Armie?_ But it releases him, the fingers of fear pried loose by a rising anger.

“Don’t say it like that. And no, _yes._ What they represent maybe.”

His tone is dismissive, sarcastic. “Sex and drugs.”

“Jesus Christ, no!” Timmy snaps, “Art. Community.”

“I just don’t have time for those little shows you like so much.”

“Little? Don’t belittle my interests.”

“Sorry, I’m--” Ansel takes a breath, sounding frustrated. “Timmy, this is not how I wanted this to go. I think you’re an incredible artist. I love you. I want to be with you.”

Timmy has stopped crying but his face is still wet, his under eyes slick and puffy. Numbness settles over him. They’ve already had this fight, and at the end of it nothing is ever different. “I don’t think so,” he says, congested. “I have to go.”

-

For the next few days, Timmy’s mood is a pendulum swinging along an unhappy spectrum.

He can wake up angry and tip into grief before breakfast. The death of a relationship is still weighted like a death, and Timmy stumbles through the morning teary-eyed, until his sour mood dictates that Ansel’s responsible for their senseless end. Then he has to physically separate himself from his phone to avoid going scorched earth on him. But eventually that impulse will fade too, replaced by fragile acceptance or aching sadness depending on the hour.

Armie fits into his thoughts, but only as a passing reprieve from the storm, a sun quickly swallowed up by dark clouds.

He keeps his head down during work Friday, hiding from Daniel’s concern in the stockroom, knowing full well that he would fall apart under his sympathy

-

Saturday Timmy has a freelance job booked in the afternoon. He buries the overwhelming desire to cancel when he remembers the paycheck and how difficult it had been to schedule in the first place.

Lily-Rose, a beautiful actor from a prominent family, meets him at a rented studio downtown for new head shots. Her hair is a wave of copper and her eyes are the happy kind of brown and it’s cliche, but the camera fucking loves her.

They shoot and review for over an hour, Timmy being lenient with his time, grateful for the distraction. Lily asks about him, and sounds genuinely interested to know. She pries into his obvious funk, but gently, dropping the subject with a sweet, “people suck,” when he is not forthcoming.

“So true,” Timmy commiserates, and finds himself smiling.

When they finish up, he gets the feeling that Lily’s friendliness isn’t purely character driven. She gives him her number with a serious, pretty stare and though she is stunning and kind and easy to be around, Timmy has no immediate intention to call. He is still feeling hollow-boned and counting the minutes until he is back home and can peel off his practiced mask again, get stoned, and openly wallow.

He still enters Lily’s contact info into his phone and gives her a gangly, one-armed hug, and then they part ways.

She’s been refreshing, but the effects don’t last.

He gets home and takes a stress nap, hoping for a mood reset but instead is woken up after dark by a terrible dream. He and Ansel were stranded in a small boat on the ocean and there was a leak and no matter what Timmy did to get Ansel’s attention, it was like Ansel couldn’t understand him, wouldn’t look to where he was pointing and yelling. Water was crawling down his throat when he’d been pulled from the nightmare and checked the time.

8:43PM.

Swabbing at the cold sweat sheeted over his face, Timmy drags himself out of bed and goes for a walk, trying to shake the dream, and the hangover of his bad mood. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it, knows without confirming who is calling.

An hour later he goes back home and dumps his phone on the kitchen counter, tries another avenue to clear his head. A hot shower that he stands under until it goes cold and he’s covered in gooseflesh. His white towel is threadbare and unspooling on one end and Timmy catches a loose loop of string on his toe when he’s drying off, accidentally tearing open a huge gap in the material.

The string of bad karma is almost funny. He must have been a real asshole in his past life.

Timmy curses and throws the towel out, trudging through his apartment completely naked and dripping wet. He pulls on a white t-shirt and boxers, then heads to the kitchen.

At this point, food is his only hope at finding some modicum of happiness tonight.

He decides on ramen, and takes his time with it, ignoring the periodic rumbling of someone calling to chop mushrooms and scallions and pork. He tests an egg in a glass full of water to see if it still sinks before dropping it in to cook with his noodles.

He starts thinking about cocaine, subconsciously sweeping his tongue over his teeth in remembrance of Armie doing the same with his thumb. Maybe he should get a few grams. He wants to relive that sensation, that feeling with Armie.

Eventually, it’s time to eat. He gets two bites in before he’s interrupted.

Timmy hurls his chopsticks down onto the mattress when his phone rings for the millionth time that night. For the love of Christ, all he wants is some peace and quiet while he eats his ramen and catches up on the Netflix show _Santa Clarita Diet_ , but apparently Ansel has other plans. He’s been relentless ever since Timmy made the rookie mistake of calling him when he was feeling low. The truth is, Timmy doesn’t think he wants reconciliation. Even though he’s sad about them being over, he’s beginning to realize that this is really it. He wants to move on.

Timmy sets his bowl down on the floor before lifting off his bed and walking over to the kitchen counter, to his angry, hissing SE, and swipes it quickly. He’s going to politely ask that Ansel fuck off, and end the call. Then he’s going to eat his dinner and finally find out what happens to Sheila and Joel.

His eyes narrow when, instead of Ansel’s name, he sees an unfamiliar number glowing across the screen. Maybe Ansel’s calling him from a different phone; a desperate attempt to get his attention.

“Hello?” Timmy’s voice is edged with aggression.

“Hey. Did I catch you at bad time?”

“What?” Timmy pulls the phone away to look at the screen, confused. He hears a warm, familiar laugh. “Armie?” His heart stutters in his chest, his belly tightens.

“Timothée,” Armie replies definitively and Timmy smiles, at the terrible pronunciation and because he can hear Armie doing the same through the phone.

“Hey. Uh, how--you have my number? Did someone give it to you?” Timmy doesn’t mean to sound accusational; he’s flattered actually, just wants more context. The exchanging of phone numbers hadn’t happened between them and he’s been kind of beating himself up about it since Armie left. The thought of Armie asking around for his digits makes his stomach twist.

“Well I didn’t look you up in the fucking yellow pages.”

Timmy laughs. Instantly, most of the dread he’s been dealing with melts away and Armie hums, seemingly satisfied.

“How are you, how's the tour? Where are you?” Timmy blushes, teeth sinking into his lip so that he’ll shut the fuck up for a second, realizing that he needs to chill. He already knows where they are. DLID played in Redding tonight.

“Good, yeah. Tour is good. We’re way up in Nor-Cal. The crowd was weird as fuck but they had a dedicated weed station set up in the green room so it was worth it.”

“Really? That’s cool.”

There is silence between the line but its smooth, comfortable. Obviously they’re both thinking.

Timmy takes the lead, feeling bold despite his hammering chest. “So…why are you calling? I mean, I’m really glad you did. It’s just unexpec—”

Armie cuts in, stops him from stumbling over his words. “Yeah. Right. This funny thing happened tonight, made me think of you.”

“Yeah?” Timmy tries to maintain composure, but he feels squirmy, like a teenager with a crush. He’s sure he looks like one too, his face heating up as he shuffles over to his bed to take a seat at the edge of his mattress. “Tell me.”

“Just this, uh, this kid at the show tonight was talking about Kid Cudi and got some facts wrong. I was able to put him in his place, thanks to your undying devotion for him.” Armie’s voice is a pleasant rumble, softened by a drink or two maybe, though Timmy would like to believe that it’s been mellowed by affection.

He waits for his hummingbird heart to slow down; Armie’s story, plus the fact that he called because Timmy had been on his mind, is making him lightheaded. He takes a few breaths, cracking his fingers on his thigh, and settles, realizing how weird it is to be talking on the phone. Phone calls were reserved solely for heated discussions that couldn’t be articulated in texts and making anxiety-inducing appointments. Adult shit.

So even though he’s happy, bubbly, flattered, Timmy feels oddly scandalized by the confrontation of Armie’s low voice in his ear. “Who actually calls people anymore?” he asks teasingly. “You and my Nana.”

Armie’s tone is matter-of-fact, but Timmy can imagine the fond eye roll behind his facade. “I don’t text.”

Timmy flops back between his pillows, fluffing one up with his fist behind his head. “What about Instagram? Facebook?”

“Nope.”

Of course, Timmy already knew this because he’d tried his damndest to stalk Armie on social media after the first night they met. Nada.

“Not even Facebook? How do you talk to people? Carrier pigeon? Pony Express?”

“Like this,” Armie says, and the small smirk in his voice feels like a victory. “I can let you go if that’s what you want.”

Timmy knows Armie is fucking with him, he smiles a bite into his lip. “No. I like it.”

“That’s what I thought.”

There’s a beat of silence. Timmy chews at his thumb, his mind shuffling through the hundreds of things he wants to ask Armie; about tour, about himself, about anything. He just wants to hear his voice. Timmy’s mind lands on something he knows he shouldn’t bring up but the words are already out before his delayed rationale can trap them back.

“So...how do you fare with the ladies on tour? Do you guys have like, groupies?”

“Why?” Armie’s voice seems to echo. “Are you worried I’m getting my dick wet every night?”

“Gross,” Timmy chuckles nervously, his finger dragging nonsense swirls over his thigh.

Armie huffs, amused. “That’s cute.”

Timmy sucks in a laugh, shaking his head as he rolls from back to tummy. He realizes in that moment that he misses Armie, legitimately. It feels kind of like when you’re sick and get the chills, a tremble in his belly that could be righted were Armie in the same zip code. Just the knowledge that Timmy had the ability to get in his car and see him in ten minutes would make him feel better.

Armie must interpret his silence as something else and when he speaks again, it’s softer. It’s in a tone Timmy doesn’t quite recognize from him.

“You doing alright though? You know, with all the dude bullshit and whatever...”

Timmy’s heart stills at the concern. He can’t help but smile like a fucking idiot over the thought of Armie being worried about him dealing with his breakup. It’s endearing as hell.

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m good.”

Armie sighs with what sounds like relief. Timmy chuckles, rolling back over and unconsciously smoothing a hand over his belly to hold his ribcage in an attempt to quell this new ache of missing.

They talk for a while longer, mostly just shooting the shit. Armie recalls a hilarious anecdote from the other day when they got a flat while Dev was driving and Dakota stepping up to change it herself because he was too hungover to move. Timmy rediscovers his ramen and slurps it down while telling Armie about work and briefly about the freelance shoot with Lily.

“Was she cute?” Armie asks when he’s done explaining the wikihow version of portrait photography.

Timmy grins, biting into the soft-boiled egg. “She was.”

“Did she slide you her digits?” He’s affecting some weird accent.

“She did actually,” Timmy says, sucking down a noodle.

“Nice.”

He thinks he can let that hang, allow Armie to believe that he might call her, wanting him to worry like Timmy is worried for what he’s up to on tour. His resolve lasts all of three seconds. “I’m not going to call her.”

Armie doesn’t say anything to that. There’s noise in the background, a door closing or something falling. “Well, I better go.”

“Yeah, me too. It’s late.” He gathers up his chopsticks and bowl, walks them over to the sink.

“Goodnight, Timmy” Armie tells him, and Timmy feels impaled by his voice, a little bit breathy, half-way indulgent.

He grins like a loon, shaking his head at his schoolboy crush. “Bye. Don’t commit any felonies while you’re gone.”

Armie gifts him one last laugh and with a cheeky, “No promises,” they end the call. Timmy spins his phone onto the couch and flops into bed, buries his face in a pillow for a few minutes and then jerks off and goes to sleep, any melancholy sapped out of him for the moment by Armie’s surprising yet definitive reminder that _he likes him._

-

The next night, Timmy closes again, making it out of work a little after 9:30.

By 10:00 he is home smoking a joint and wondering if Armie is going to call again.

It’s Sunday, which he would initially assume means an early night for the band--who has an after-party on a Sunday? But then again, Dakota, Armie, and Dev are couchsurfing most nights, which could easily lead to late night drinks with their hosts.

He scrolls instagram for clues.

There is a tagged photo from their show tonight that looks like Armie and Dev. He taps the thumbnail to open the post, speaking out loud when the image loads.

“That isn’t fair.”

Armie is standing up behind his kit, sticks in hand, leaned over to hear what Dev is saying to him. And he’s wearing a fucking mesh shirt. That plus his small black shorts plus the warm expression on his face towards Dev, all of it captured in black and white, is an equation that makes Timmy sweat. So much fucking skin.

It seems impossible that the same man in the picture has been attached to his mouth on more than one occasion now, let alone other parts of his body. Fuck.

Timmy’s shorts are suddenly too tight, which gives him an idea. Well, two ideas, but one, with any luck, will beget the other.

Flushed, he kicks out of his pants and dives over the edge of his bed, searching through a pile of mildly-dirty clothes. What he’s looking for is turned inside out under a mountain of other black shirts, but eventually he’s found it and slips it on, the Drive Like I Do band tee that Armie let him wear when they went for In-N-Out.

The hem hits him mid-thigh and he grins, scurrying up into bed with his phone.

Posing is easy; he remembers all of the angles from years back, when he’d first started seeing Ansel. At one point in his young life he’d perfected the thirst trap selfie, but admittedly it’s been a while. Timmy holds the phone angled down from over his head, so that he can get his entire face and a sliver of bare thigh in the shot, and snaps a few pics. There’s no mistaking their intention, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth slightly open, wet with spit from when he’d licked over it.

He stares at the best one for no more than a second or two, knowing that this surge of boldness is fleeting, before attaching it in a text to Armie’s unsaved number and hitting send.

Once the bar loads and it goes through, Timmy turns his phone face down and wanders into the kitchen for something to snack on. He can’t deal with the anticipation of waiting for a response, or worse, the inevitable let down of hearing nothing. (He also can’t see the needling _Can we talk?_ text from Ansel waiting for his action.)

Armie might be sleeping already, or still at the show, or busy. Or he might just not need the attention of a scrawny kid from home when he’s out on an adventure with his actual friends.

Timmy finishes off two kinds of cereal, mixing Frosted Flakes and Kix into one bowl and breaking down the boxes for his recycle bin. His only clean spoons are for soup and he sits at the small, high table shoveling in heap after heap of sugary goodness, staring resolutely out of the window to keep from catching sight of his phone.

Only once he’s finished and washed up does he allow himself back to where he’d tossed it in bed. Possibility clings in his throat, and he feels stupid for it, that he’s found himself so invested in Armie’s validation.

He picks it up and presses the screen. There it is. A missed call.

Fuck. He’d forgotten to take it off silent. Self-loathing spears him. But then his entire hand is vibrating. The screen goes black and Armie’s number pops up in bold white font.

Timmy waits for a few rings before answering, biting into his tongue, relentlessly giddy. He tries to steady his breathing when he finally answers, “Hello?”

“Hello,” Armie replies. His mouth sounds close to the phone, his voice at half-volume. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“I tried you once before.”

“Oh, I was eating some cereal.”

Armie laughs, more breath than actual sound. “Eating some cereal, so that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”

“Armie,” Timmy chastises. “Seriously, I was.” He realizes that he’s still standing and sits into bed, gathers up his legs, stretches the hem of the shirt down his bare thighs towards his knees, watching as the fabric bounces back up.

“What were you doing before?”

Timmy feels himself getting warm, he grips his fingers into his thigh muscle. “What’s with the twenty questions? I feel like I’m being interrogated,” he wheezes softly, nervously. “It was Colonel Mustard! In the study! With the rope.”

“I dig the loungewear.”

There it is. Timmy covers his face with his hand, hiding his grin as if Armie can see it through their call. He pivots, just to make Armie squirm. “So, how was your night?”

“Timmy.”

“See any good roadside attractions? World’s biggest ball of string? A potato shaped like the Virgin Mary?”

“Timmy.”

“Eat any good barbecue? You’re in Texas, right? I hear they have little to no human rights, but a fuckton of great barbecue...”

Armie wants his attention. “Timothée Whatever-The-Fuck,” he says, enunciating every syllable.

Timmy goes quiet, and hard, at the authority in his tone. He rolls onto his stomach, presses his hips down against the mattress, stays quiet as he grips a handful of his sheet.

He’s beginning to think that he’s actually pissed Armie off because of how silent the line is. Timmy holds his breath and thinks he can hear the crackle of a cigarette being eaten away next to the receiver. Then Armie’s voice fills in again, his voice lower, more textured.

“Thanks for the picture,” he says, “You look fucking--Listen, I have a shit memory but that picture reminded me, _fuck._ I can’t believe you really look like that.”

“Yeah?” Timmy exhales, his cock pressing into the mattress along with his chest. Armie’s compliment turns his mind over, makes his eyes close so he can envision the praise coming directly from his mouth; full lips, sharp teeth, a jawline to match that fucking voice.

Timmy’s hand that had been propped up against this jaw shifts back into his hair, tugging the strands in a way that reminds him of Armie. “I hope you’re not getting into fights out there, fucking up that handsome face again.”

Armie sounds like he’s moving, maybe getting comfortable. Timmy tries to imagine him shifting down into a bed, hopefully just as hard as he is. The thought of Armie’s cock elicits a soft sound from Timmy’s throat involuntarily. He tries to muffle himself against the crumpled sheet in his hand but it’s too late.

They must be on the same wavelength cock-wise because Armie asks about his.

“What are you doing with that pretty cock of yours right now?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. Are you hard?”

Timmy whimpers in response and it sounds like Armie wets his mouth. He grinds into his mattress again, fervent, whines into his fist.

“Oh, fuck. You’re playing with yourself, aren’t you,” Armie whispers conspiratorially; his voice is so low it’s practically dripping from the phone. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

Timmy dips against the bed again, biting the sheet that’s still fisted in his hand. He’s desperate for the friction. He tells Armie exactly what he’s doing, indifferent at how ridiculous it might sound.

“I’m rubbing my dick against my mattress,” he huffs, amused and aroused, breathless. “And it’s your fault. Someone posted a story of you wearing a mesh shirt. What the fuck, Armie.”

“Just the mattress? Grab your pillow and fuck that instead. I want to hear you.”

Timmy doesn’t hesitate to do what Armie says. He throws a hand over his head and grabs his pillow, lifts his hips and shoves it underneath his lower half. He sets his phone down, pressing the screen so it’s on speaker, and shifts until he’s made the perfect scoop in his pillow for his dick.

“How does it feel? Good?” Armie asks like he knows from experience, which just sends Timmy’s mind into a nosedive. He rolls his hips experimentally into the fluff, biting his lip when he pulls back and the fabric bunches against his balls.

“Hell yeah,” Timmy sighs. It feels good but he knows what he really wants. “I wish it was your fucking _mouth_ , Armie.”

“You do taste pretty good but…” Timmy presses repeatedly into his pillow, reaching a hand down to bunch up the cushion for even more friction. “There are a few other things I’d like to do to you.”

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Armie is still grinning through the phone and it makes Timmy shiver. He huffs, knowing that Armie is leading him, making him say exactly what he wants to hear. Timmy likes relinquishing control.

“Tell me what you’re going to do to me when you get back home.”

And Armie does. He tells him everything he wants to do: feel him from the inside out, finger him, fuck him, bend him over and spear him with his tongue. Ansel never talked dirty, not like this. With Ansel it was sweeter, tender. It was always _making love_ but Armie makes it clear that his desire for Timmy is raw.

After a while, Timmy isn’t speaking. He’s just a chorus of pants and moans, his mouth hanging open, drool pooling over his bottom lip as he ruts harder against the pillow.

When Armie tells him that he wants to feel the flutter of Timmy’s hole around his cock, Timmy finally comes up his stomach, the tip of his dick having slid out of the waistband of his underwear, making a sticky smear of mess between his belly and pillow. Damnit, these pillowcases were his favorite too, from Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

“Well shit, Timmy. I thought you were never going to come,” Armie sighs, his amusement ever-present but his voice still warm.

“Fuck off,” Timmy laughs, shuddering and rolling over with a groan to pick up his phone. He clicks off speaker and closes his eyes, listening to Armie’s soft breath. “Did you? Were you touching yourself?”

Armie is quiet, just gentle movement rustling through the receiver. Timmy gulps and takes a steadying breath.

“I’ll tell you when you’re older,” he says.

Timmy smiles. “You fucking asshole.”

They talk until sleep takes over, Timmy crashing quickly after orgasm. He knows he’ll regret falling asleep without cleaning up but the itchy discomfort of dried come on his belly is a small price to pay for getting to fall asleep with Armie rambling in his ear.

-

Them talking becomes a nightly routine from then on.

Armie calls Timmy when the band’s show is over and the night is winding down, and Timmy always answers, even out of a dead sleep; Armie spends most of those calls teasing him about his grogginess, imitating his mumbles and repeating his silly sentences.

“You’re cute when you’re high, but when you’re half asleep — that’s when you say the good shit,” Armie needles one night. Timmy simpers and calls him a prick, a wide smile on his face.

The next Wednesday, Dakota cuts in on the other end of the line while they’re talking to coo at Timmy, filling him in on tour from her perspective and saying how much she misses him. He tells her that he can’t wait to hear about everything over a few beers once they’re home.

When she puts Armie back on the phone, he sounds different. They hang up a few minutes later and Timmy frets about whether or not the shift means anything until his call wakes Timmy up the following night.

On Friday they jerk off together. Timmy comes with Armie breathing filth, but is still aching when they hang up, getting tired of only having his voice, and only for such a short time. It isn’t enough. With just calls, he isn’t getting his fix; when it comes to Armie, Timmy simply wants more. More more more.

Saturday DLID play in Seattle, Armie’s old stomping grounds.

Timmy gets dragged out to a bar with Saoirse and a few other friends from college in a thinly-veiled attempt to help him cope with his breakup, but he makes sure to be back by midnight, not wanting to yell over the music and people at a bar.

Armie doesn’t call.

It gets later, and later, and he hears nothing.

Despondent, he smokes on the porch and crawls social media, intestines tying themselves into poorly-wrapped balloon animals when the DLID instagram that Dakota runs posts a story. It’s a pan video in a dimly-lit room with graffiti all over the walls. There are at least twenty people milling around on the dirty carpet, drinking and talking. Dev is sat on the couch between two girls showing him something on a phone. Armie is in the back of the room, close to the window, and he’s laughing with some guy. Some fucking _gorgeous_ guy.

Timmy spirals despite a self-directed lecture not let this nonsense fucking bother him. Of course Armie was going draw in attractive people, especially looking like that.

The guy in the photo has an arm around Armie’s shoulder, and he’s blinding him with a clean, white smile. The longer Timmy stares, the more clear it becomes that they haven’t just met, a lack of tension in Armie’s frame taunting Timmy, making him jump to the wild conclusion that they’ve definitely fucked. Which makes sense. Armie would’ve left plenty of broken hearts in Washington when he moved back to LA, people he didn’t like enough to stick around for--bad boyfriend material, just like Dakota said. But a no strings hook-up while he was in town for the night? That sounded like something he would still be into.

The least Timmy can hope for is the same consideration. Maybe. The realization that he has no fucking clue what Armie wants with him, or from him, washes over him like cold, sobering shower spray.

Timmy’s heart feels huge, thick and swollen, like his ribs are cutting into it on every inhale. He tries to distract himself by falling into a youtube hole but no amount of Vine compilations can hold his attention, so he disappears into himself, struggling to pull out something that isn’t currently stained by missing Armie.

He shuffles through people he used to fuck, before Ansel, boys and girls from college, a few from high school. He wonders what they’re doing now, would bet that at least a few would accept his friend request and want to hang out. He’s single now. He should be out plowing fields, sowing wild oats--all that shit.

The prospect of unearthing a past fling backfires and instead of hunting down someone to lay, Timmy ends up calling Ansel, praying that he won’t answer once the phone starts ringing.

“Timmy? What time is it?”

Fuck. He’d been asleep. “Sorry,” Timmy breathes, and flounders, ends the call.

He shuts off his phone before Ansel can call back and lays down, tossing and turning with Netflix playing until unconsciousness finally takes mercy on him and claims him, hours later.

-

Armie does call Monday, while Timmy is working in his darkroom. He’d forgotten to turn his phone over and it overexposes the print he’s developing, but he picks up anyway.

They don’t talk about Armie not calling the night before, when he’d been playing Seattle, despite the fact that the question weighs heavy on the tip of Timmy’s tongue through the entire conversation. Armie doesn’t go into detail about how the show went either, but he does tell Timmy about Dakota cracking someone in the balls with a pool cue for saying she had ‘nice tits’ and when they hang up, the pang Timmy has been suffering from for the last 24 hours is more diffuse.

He goes to sleep remembering that tomorrow is their last show and that after they’ll be racing back down the coast towards home.

-

Tuesday there is no call, but Dakota does send a short video, a selfie she’s taken of her and Armie smushed into the frame together, her cheek pressed against his, half of his face screwed up in mock-disgust. It looks like they’re in the backseat of the van. “Hi Timmy!” she trills, and Armie’s big hand moves mechanically into frame, waving. He looks absolutely miserable but there’s a curve to his lip that Timmy recognizes as Armie’s way of suppressing a smile.

Timmy stamps a hand against his chest, bowled over by how cute it is, only remembering to send back a few heart-eyes emoji once he’s watched it ten times over. Three dots appear instantly once he’s replied.

Dakota:  
Headed for home!

Dakota:  
If Dev’s driving doesn’t kill us before we get there.

Dakota:  
<3

Timmy thinks back to her discerning stare from the beach, but doesn’t follow the train of thought any further, too pleased. Excited for them all to be back.

-

When Timmy wakes up on Wednesday, he tries to keep busy. Anticipating Armie coming home doesn’t mean anything — except realizing that now Armie probably won’t be calling him every night, which somehow feels like a loss despite being able to see him again.

Dakota’s IG story gives him nothing about their status. All she’s posted is a story of a gas station to-go coffee cup and a half-eaten banana nut muffin with a caption that reads _breakfast of champions._

He’s distracted at work but makes it through. Daniel invites him out for drinks after but he turns him down, giving the excuse of needing to go work on some negatives from his shoot the other day. And honestly, he should, but when he’s home he’s too wired to focus on any task for long. He’s only capable of changing out of his work clothes, opting for a pair of jeans and a hoodie and refreshing his social media feed until he annoys himself into being half-way productive and cracks open a book.

Timmy’s reread the same sentence three times when he hears a few gentle taps at his front door.

He lifts his head to look for the sound, wondering if it’s his neighbor who sometimes comes by to hit him up for weed. The niggling desire for coke makes itself known again and he wonders if they could work out a trade; he has a new oil pen with some flavored indica that he’d be willing to part with.

Timmy opens the door and only has time to go from mild curiosity to surprise, Armie revealed behind the door, pulling his face in and kissing him before he’s had a chance to reach his real reaction: exhilaration.

“What the fuck--you’re home!” he exclaims dumbly, excitement lost against Armie’s mouth.

Armie rumbles a laugh into their kiss, breathes, “No shit,” and guides Timmy backwards. His hands shift from Timmy’s hips to seal against his shoulder blades, keeping him arched into Armie’s chest as they stumble.

Timmy tilts his head, pulling their mouths open and slipping his tongue in, groaning when Armie squeezes and instinctively he jumps. His legs coil around Armie’s trim waist, the heel of one socked foot pressing into the meat of Armie’s ass for leverage.

Timmy’s mind and body are at odds, his brain trying to process the fact that Armie is home, that he came to see him unprompted, that he’s fucking _here_ but now that their bodies are wrapped around each other it’s hard to consider anything other than _fuck me._

It’s only a few more feet and then he’s being dumped, landing with a bounce on top of his mattress.

Armie takes a moment to just look at him, sprawled over his duvet, which thank god he remembered to wash a few days after he fucked his pillow for Armie. His eyes are dark and there’s more of a beard on his cheeks than Timmy’s seen him with yet, his hair fuzzy from his buzzcut being neglected. Armie is unreal, but he’s here and the way he’s staring makes Timmy want to blush.

The intermission only lasts a breath or two, and then Armie is pulling off his plain black t-shirt by the back of its collar and crawling over him.

“Miss me?” Timmy asks, wry and breathless, curving a hand around Armie’s neck and bringing his mouth down. He trails his palm down Armie’s chest and stomach, admiring every muscle he’s been deprived of while being relegated to social media admiration only for the last two weeks.

Armie nips at his lip, winging Timmy’s thigh wide to press his hips in. “You could say that.”

Timmy makes a strangled, pathetic sound because Armie is hard and hot even through his jeans, and Timmy _wants him._ Over a week with just his low, smooth voice in Timmy’s ear at night was beginning to starve him. “Good,” he pants, tearing his nails down Armie’s back. “Show me.”

Armie bites his mouth and then leaves it, searing a trail of kisses down the side of his face, sinking his teeth into the joining of his neck and shoulder while one hand slips open the button of Timmy’s jeans. Armie drags down the zipper impatiently with his thumb while Timmy rotates his hips.

That’s when Timmy’s phone rings.

They both ignore it, Timmy staunchly letting it go to voicemail, but it only starts up again seconds later.

“Goddamnit,” he huffs, lifting his hips for Armie to shimmy down his pants, pulling them off his ankles and into a heap at the end of the bed. Timmy fishes out his phone. _Fuck!_ It’s Ansel.

And Armie sees. His sharp blue eyes snap up to Timmy’s, wide and accusing. He pulls the phone out of Timmy’s loose grip and answers.

“Hi. Timmy’s busy right now,” he says into the receiver, hanging up before there’s time for response and tosses the phone onto Timmy’s pillow.

It starts again as soon as their mouths touch.

Timmy pulls himself up onto his elbows, looking over at the blinding screen in his darkened room. “Sorry. I don’t know what he wants.”

Armie pulls away too, sitting back on his knees, chest heaving. He rubs a hand over his short hair. “Has he been calling you a lot?”

It’s like a car accident happening in slow motion and Timmy can’t do anything to stop it, his foot on the gas, the wheel already turned. “Yeah…” he starts, “we’ve been talking a little bit. But it’s not what you think.”

Armie’s expression closes up. His posture stiffens. He mutters, “Jesus Christ,” and Timmy has a feeling he’s speaking mostly to himself.

Timmy sits up more fully, terrified of being walled out when he’s just gotten him back. He turns off his phone in a hurry. “Armie, no no no,” he says, reaching, placing his palms against Armie’s bare chest, imploring that he just listen before jumping to conclusions. “We’re both just...processing. Please.”

He scrambles up onto his knees, hooking his hands over Armie’s shoulders, bringing their faces together. “I missed you,” he says through a tight jaw,

“I’m not playing this fucking game with you anymore,” Armie sighs, and Timmy swears to him that this is different, pressing his lips to Armie’s over and over again until Armie finally puts an arm around his waist and lays him down again.

Timmy folds around Armie as he blankets him, whispering against Armie’s ear that, “I’ve been jerking off thinking about you. I’m so fucking happy you’re back.”

Armie doesn’t say anything, but he does kiss him again, sucking the point of his tongue, then burning him with the rasp of his beard against Timmy’s clean-shaven cheek. He lifts his hips away, and Timmy scrabbles for his warmth, but he settles down on the other side of his leg, lying diagonally over him so that he can divest Timmy of his emerald-colored boxer briefs. Timmy shimmies out of his hoodie too, thrilling at the idea of being completely naked while Armie is still mostly dressed.

His cock is hard and leaking, drooling against his belly, begging for attention but Armie hardly pays it any mind. He props himself up with a forearm next to Timmy’s head and smoothes his free hand up the inside of his thigh. “I’ve been thinking about _this_ ,” he exhales, chin pointed at his chest so that he can follow his hand’s ascent between Timmy's legs.

Timmy’s hips rise away from the bed, seeking relief, and Armie takes advantage, his touch dipping inward, fingers and then palm brushing under his balls.

“Jesus fuck,” Timmy grits out, turning to bite a mark into his own shoulder. He remembers Armie’s silken confession of wanting this over the phone last week.

Armie strokes over his perineum with one fingertip. “Is this okay?”

Timmy nods with his entire body, fingers nervously carding through the prickly hairs at the back of Armie’s head. Armie pushes Timmy’s hair away from his temple, bent over him and asking for his eyes, only breaching him once Timmy meets his gaze.

Timmy gasps silently, mouth falling open as he feels the first push of pressure. Armie dips to kiss his top lip, then bottom, and continues filling him as far his he can until there’s too much resistance. He pulls his hand away, drooling spit over his fingers for lubrication before leaning back in.

Armie is two fingers deep before Timmy is a complete, babbling mess, writhing against Armie’s hand, restless against the pillow. He wants Armie’s mouth, persistently licking into it before needing space to breathe. Timmy anchors a hand around the firm round of Armie’s shoulder, trying to bear down onto his fingers but unable to find the right angle.

“Come on, Armie,” he bleeds out, “I need you. Need you to fuck me, pleasepleaseplease.”

Armie continues to drive into him with two fingers, circling his rim with a third. He drops a kiss against Timmy’s stark collarbone, just where he likes it, but it’s not enough.

“Armie, no,” Timmy continues, his voice hard-edged, borderline angry. “Really _fuck me_ already.”

Armie begins easing in his third finger, twisting his wrist, reaching for Timmy’s spot. “I don’t want to.”

Timmy bites him. “You’re a stupid fucking liar,” he grits out but it bubbles into a moan because Armie finally gets there, hooks his fingers _just right_ and Timmy is gone. “Jesus, yeah. Right there. Again, again.”

Armie responds with a knowing growl. He situates himself more firmly beside Timmy’s bent knees, half-held over him with pupil-eaten eyes as he watches Timmy thrash under him. Armie kisses down the center of his throat, to a nipple that he teases with his tongue.

Timmy feels nothing but texture; Armie’s thick fingers inside of him, the heat from his own cock and the wetness of precome that steadily flows from the slit now that Armie knows where to drag-press his fingers, and the sharp test of his teeth.

“You sound like you’re going to come,” Armie whispers, heated, his breath washing out warmly against Timmy’s skin. “You going to come for me, pretty boy?”

Timmy’s hands are everywhere — pulling at his sheets, his own hair, scratching red marks down Armie’s shoulders and biceps. He ruts his hips upwards and to the side, his cock seeking friction but when it finds nothing but the brush of Armie’s bare skin, he snaps his hand around it to extinguish some of the burn, fisting over it in a messy half-hearted attempt to synchronize with Armie’s persistent fingers.

Timmy can feel Armie’s eyes all over him, taking him in, watching and listening. Armie is a fucking wet dream, towering over him, casting him in shadow. He’s so beautiful that it makes Timmy physically ache; it’s overwhelming. He closes his eyes, unable to keep them open any longer, and when he suddenly feels Armie’s warm, full lips shaping themselves against his, Timmy surrenders.

“Armie--gonna, _fuck,_ I’m coming.”

Armie kisses him harder and Timmy’s mouth goes slack while his body tenses, stomach muscles rippling as he alternates between fucking into his own hand and surging down against Armie’s fingers.

He skyrockets out of the atmosphere, left to float in zero g, body over-loaded with sensation. The whole world has whited out.

It takes a few minutes for Timmy to come down from his orgasm.

His brain feels fried, in a good way. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, and whines when Armie pulls his fingers out, curling into Armie’s side when he collapses next to him. Timmy throws an arm over his chest, resting his ear against the cave of his armpit and shoulder. They lay there in silence, catching their breath.

Timmy smiles when he hears how aggressively Armie’s heart is slamming against the front of his ribcage. “That was good,” Timmy sighs, his eyes slowly blinking open as he tilts his chin up. “But.”

Armie looks down, raises an eyebrow. “But?”

Timmy’s slides a hand down Armie’s ribcage, following the steep concave dip towards his lower belly, pushing down under his jeans and boxers. He wraps careful fingers around the base of Armie’s still hard cock, smiles when he feels wetness against the tip.

“But I want to make you come,” Timmy purrs. Armie inhales sharply and reels his hand out from his underwear by his wrist, then flattens Timmy’s hand out on his chest and shakes his head.

“I’m good. Just you tonight.”

Timmy pouts openly, curling in closer. He kisses Armie’s neck and tries to slide his hand down again but Armie’s grip on his wrist argues against his efforts.

“Seriously. That was nice,” Armie says, patting his hand. “But, I’m fucking gross, two weeks of tour. I need to get back to Dakota’s and shower.”

Timmy catches Armie’s gaze towards the door, and scrambles. He hooks his fingers into Armie’s side and sits up on an elbow.

“Shower here,” he proposes, becoming more enthusiastic about the idea as he presents it. “Yeah, yeah. You should just stay and shower here.”

Armie looks skeptical, his brow creased in the middle. “I don’t think so.”

Timmy rolls his eyes. He gives Armie a chaste kiss before rolling out of bed, and tugging him up along with him. “Come on. I’ve got one of those dope shower heads with like, five different massage settings.”

Armie’s eyes rake over Timmy’s bare skin, not overtly appreciative, but torn about giving in. Timmy doesn’t retreat. He grabs a shirt from the floor to wipe away some of the drying come and pulls his boxers back on. Then he’s plucking out a clean pair of boxer briefs from his dresser for Armie that he bought a size up on accident. They’ll definitely be too small but at least they’re clean. He pushes Armie towards the bathroom, and with only one disapproving glare, he goes.

Once the water is running, Armie seems to have accepted that he’s staying. Timmy steps into his space and they kiss languidly against the sink while the water heats up. He’s still stuck halfway in disbelief that Armie is back, and that he’d even left because everything still feels the exact same as he remembers it did with him, like far too much.

Once the mirror is beginning to steam up, Timmy gives Armie a quick tutorial about the settings on the shower head. He lingers after, hoping that Armie will ask him to join but when he doesn’t Timmy shuts the door with a smile. It still counts as a win in his book.

He flops down on his bed to wait impatiently, willing his cock to stay calm while he fails miserably at trying not to think about Armie lathering up his hard body, big cock, and round, perfect ass in Timmy’s organic rose water soap.

He ends up half-hard and desperate to barge into the shower, but something gives him strength to wait long enough to hear the water shut off, the pipes screaming and the sound of the sliding glass door opening and closing. Timmy thinks he’s tamed his want until the bathroom door opens and steam billows out from behind Armie who emerges, tinted pink from the hot shower and squeezed into his too small boxers, skin beaded with water.

“Stay the night,” Timmy exhales suddenly, his eyes dancing over every inch of exposed muscle as Armie looms in his underwear, holding his folded clothes against one side. He shakes his head.

“I’m not going to fuck you, Timmy.” He unfolds his jeans and starts to move to pull them back on.

“Because you’re mad about Ansel?”

Armie’s expression turns to stone. So, that’s a yes then. He doesn’t want to re-open that argument right now, and truthfully, this isn’t even about fucking. He’s just gotten Armie back and isn’t ready to let him go again; he doesn’t care what they do or don’t do, as long as he stays.

“Arrrmmmiiieee,” Timmy sighs, wiggling back to make room for two in his bed. He pats the empty space. “I don’t want to fight about Ansel.” Timmy bites his lip, his eyes faltering when he whispers, “I just want you to stay.”

Armie doesn’t verbally surrender but he does stop putting on his clothes. Timmy smiles like he’s already won. His eyes crescent from the width of his grin. “Get your ass over here. You can just as easily _not fuck me_ in bed, as you can standing all the way over there like a, beautiful, brooding idiot.”

“You’re a pain in my ass.”

“Not yet.” Timmy beams and then squeals when he sees he’s truly won because Armie kicks his jeans the rest of the way off and is walking towards the bed. He peels back the comforter, and shuts off the light switch next to his shoulder before climbing into bed.

The mood shifts once he’s settled, the delightfully playful carbonation of a moment ago goes flat when Armie’s head hits his pillow. They both gravitate onto their sides, looking at one another, not talking. It’s dark now in his apartment, but the moon outside is full. It casts a wedge of the bed in horizontal stripes from the blinds.

“Tired?” Timmy asks, feasting on the details of Armie’s face now that he’s able again. Grainy instagram filters don’t do justice to the soft marshmallow of his lips. He can see every one of Armie’s eyelashes in stunning iridescence. Any lingering ghost of the injuries from his fight are gone.

Armie blinks in slow-motion. “Yeah. Long drive.” He tips over onto his back, chest swelling gently with each breath, moving the duvet. “Feels good to be back in L.A.”

There’s more between the lines there, but Timmy doesn’t need to hear that Armie has missed him in any certain terms, already warmed that he’s come over as soon as the band got home, and that he asked someone--Dakota probably--for his number so that they could talk on the phone while he was gone.

Timmy watches Armie’s eyes fall shut, his lips unsealing as he sinks quickly towards sleep. He scoots closer, his hand bumping up against Armie’s loosely-curled fist under the blankets. Watching him, he peels it open, finger by finger, and places his own inside, palm to palm with his nails resting against the inside of Armie’s wrist.

After a moment of inaction, Armie’s hand closes up around around Timmy’s, and without opening his eyes or looking back over, he tells him goodnight.

“Goodnight,” Timmy whispers, locking this moment into memory, Armie soft and sweet-smelling and taking up the other half of his bed. “‘M glad you’re home.”

 -

 _**i'm rushing in a small town** _  
_**i forgot to call you** _  
_**running low on know how** _  
_**this beats made for two** _  
_**'cause I remember that I like you** _  
_**no matter what I found** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we would just like to issue a PSA that this fic is not going to be all roses and sunshine.


	6. a change of heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the comments left in the last chapter basically made us cry for hours. you guys are certifiably amazing.

Armie wakes with a start.

His alarm is blaring.

It’s disorienting as hell. He can’t remember where he is, having jumped from strange house to strange house for the past two weeks

There’s a familiarity in the warmth and scent around him, but his brain takes a few long moments to place it. The room is still and light, dust motes floating through the space, a window over his head cracked open to let in the breeze. It’s already getting hot and the sun must have only just risen.

When Armie instinctively reaches for the floor, phone still screaming from the pocket of his puddled jeans, something is holding him back. Someone. He turns gently to identify the offending anchor.

Timmy is sleeping sprawled against his side, and while Armie doesn’t want to equate him with _home_ , that is essentially what Timmy means--he’s back in LA.

When Armie made a beeline for Timmy’s last night, he hadn’t allowed himself enough time to map out all possible conclusions of the visit i.e. spending the night. He’d been guided by impulse (and his dick) and now there’s a foreign feeling sprouting blooms inside him, the seed of it what fueled his late night visit.

He doesn’t know what to do with the excess.

It grows in the presence of Timmy, keeps him rooted in bed as the events of last night piece themselves together in his mind. Timmy’s voice, begging to be fucked, is loud in his head until he hears the barking reminder of his alarm resetting.

_Oh fuck!_

He has to get up for work.

Props to yesterday-Armie for looking out for him , but the idea of staying here and bringing Timmy to life with his mouth seems an attractive alternative to keeping his job. It’s been weeks since the back seat of his Altima but Armie can still taste Timmy against the soft inner flesh of his cheeks.

There’s a flickering subconscious realization that Timmy is the first person he’s made come twice now without getting anything in return, but his wailing alarm doesn’t allow the thought the turnover. He needs to get up.

Armie discovers just how heavy of a sleeper Timmy is when he manages to roll him over, earning only a small whine in the process. His alarm has no effect.

It’s so early that the sun isn’t fully roused, which gives the temptation to stay more pull. But Armie needs this fucking job, has to get home and grab work clothes, then crawl through traffic back in the other direction if he’s going to be on time.

Now that he’s distanced himself from the heat of Timmy’s body, gaining some clarity over the entire situation, Armie realizes that he really, _really_ , doesn’t want to do the awkward goodbye shuffle if Timmy wakes up.

He slides out of bed as covertly as possible, snapping the constrictive band of his borrowed boxers to relieve the reddened indentations on his hip bones, and takes to searching out the rest of his shit. Most of it is piled up nearby and he dresses quickly, giving himself a pat down to make sure he has his wallet and phone and _where the fuck are his car keys?_

Timmy’s apartment floor is made up of ancient hardwood so it isn’t easy to tiptoe around. Armie feels like he’s holding his breath with each protest of wood, but is able to locate his keys on the bathroom floor where they must have slipped out before his shower.

Armie hesitates at the rekindling thought of last night. He grips his keys, and against his better judgement, stops to look at Timmy again, Timmy, who has rearranged himself in the sea of blankets and sheets. His skin is smooth and he looks at home amongst the cotton and fluff, knees and thighs holding the duvet.

Armie wipes a sheen of sweat from his forehead.

The window is open but the only air cycling through the apartment is inspired by a cumbersome oscillating fan on the floor. It rotates to shuffle the blinds and billows sticky summer heat towards Armie, then retreats, turns until it’s blowing a gentle push of air over Timmy’s coiled body.

Armie listens to the stutter, start of the motor, just looking at Timmy in bed, surrounded by reaching white walls and unorganized, fully stacked bookshelves, notes scribbled over a wooden desk and stuffed into a photography tome from a past course in college.

He finds himself fighting against a rising tide of hunger, in more forms than one.

Armie isn’t going to do it, tells himself to just leave, get in the car and go home, but when his eyes catch a particularly buoyant curl resting on Timmy’s forehead being shifted by the weak breeze, his defiance disappears and, quietly, he creeps back over to the bed.

His eyes follow the slight curve of Timmy’s waist, his leg hoisted to his chest, creating a few gentle rolls out of his lower belly. He’s fucking pretty, and _soft_ , Armie has to admit, the confession fanning the flames of his uncomfortable desire to rejoin Timmy under the covers and go back to sleep.

He doesn’t have time for this feelsy bullshit.

When did he start giving a fuck about his morning afters with hook ups? Never before in his life had Armie ever hesitated to leave the scene of the crime, especially when he had an easy way out -- his victim still unconscious. But something doesn’t feel right about leaving Timmy that way.

He compromises with the pang in his belly, reasons that a goodbye kiss might subdue some of the anxiety. And if Timmy’s not awake to experience it, then he won’t have to do the verbal song and dance of leaving.

It’s better this way, safer.

Armie settles on a good spot--the ball of Timmy’s shoulder, which is held up near his chin. It looks soft and round, like a white peach, contrasting sweetly against the pink in his cheeks. Armie’s mouth waters and he holds his breath, leaning down. His lips press and stick to Timmy’s tacky, sleepy skin and when Armie pulls back, they taste of salt.

 _That’s enough,_ he tells himself, and backpedals for the door.

He’s thinking he’s gotten away with it but falters when Timmy sucks in a short breath and shifts against the pillow, lashes fluttering. “Where you goin’?” His voice is deep, etched with lethargy, his mouth a dozy pout that hardly moves as he mumbles.

Armie speaks quietly, “I have to hit up Dakota’s to get clothes for work. I can’t miss another day.”

“Oh,” Timmy yawns, then blinks a few times, eyes sharpening. “C’mere first though.”

Armie looks at him, immediately aware of what he wants, and that if he’s going to keep things from getting any further muddied between them, he should leave.

Unfortunately, logic holds no sway right now and Armie’s traitorous feet carry him back to the bedside, compelled forward by the way TImmy looks right now, tousled and angelic and bathed in the crisp light of morning. No one should be allowed to look that good, especially first thing. “What is it?”

Timmy raises his head up and away from the pillow, slowly, like it weighs a ton, and cuts his chin up toward the ceiling. His mouth forms a slack little ‘o’ and he waits like that, the ‘o’ widening out when Armie caves and ducks down to touch it. He hesitates, just a half breath away, to commit to memory the visual of Timmy’s pliant and expectant mouth drawn open for his kiss before indulging him. Timmy tastes like sleep.

“Bye Armie,” he mewls, fingers tripping down the edge of his jaw, and turns away with a slippery smile, back to sleep.

Armie straightens back up, taking one last look, Timmy’s exposed side a pale mountain range against the covers. He marvels at the control Timmy wields over him, unable to understand it and afraid of what it could mean. It’s kind of embarrassing.

The door clicks shut behind him and as soon as he’s met with clean air, Armie exhales deeply, eyes closing with a strange sense of relief. He feels sober for the first time since arriving at Timmy’s last night.

He is sweating by the time he gets to his car, which is a fucking sauna when he climbs in, but the irritation from the heat is a welcomed distraction from the half-revelations gnawing their way in through his gut. Unrolling the windows, Armie speeds home, his cravings drifting on from Timmy to a more reasonable subject: breakfast burritos.

-

Armie hears gravel crunch from somewhere behind him as he takes a long drag of his cigarette. He turns to the left to see who is walking through the back of the office building. Most people avoid the area because it’s next to the dumpsters and loud because of the freeway overpass. His eyes flicker between the _No Smoking_ sign and Jack’s sideways smirk.

“The prodigal son returns!” Jack beams, swooping in for a one-armed hug. Armie is careful not to burn him with his cigarette. “They had Chad filling in for you, that fucking gobshite. I was two days away from hurling myself off the roof.”

“Where were you this morning? Cubicle was quiet without you.”

“Dentist appointment,” Jack says, baring his teeth. He tears open a plastic container that Armie recognizes from the vending machine in the galley, pulls out two halves of a sandwich and hands one over. “Twenty bucks says we get food poisoning.”

Armie stares down at the business end of his questionable deli meat sandwich. “I don’t want to tempt fate by taking you up on that,” he says, and takes a bite.

Jack laughs, “Tell you what, I’ll hold your hair back for you if you get sick.” Armie responds with a laugh and a light punch to Jack’s arm.

They look like mormon missionaries making out with the norovirus. White shirts and black ties, a beige mayonnaise stain on Jack’s within the first couple of minutes. He tries to lick it off, only making things worse.

Stain abandoned, Jack vents about Chad, about how work’s been with him gone, and eventually the conversation bleeds into Armie’s tour, or more specifically, whether or not he’d gotten laid city by city. Armie doesn’t say anything, just looks up, his face getting hot.

“Oh shit. I forgot, you’re all ass over ankles about that guy you’re _not_ fucking,” Jack says with a knowing smirk, eyebrows arched with amusement. “The one with the rock collection.”

Armie almost spits out his drink. “Who?”

“You know,” Jack probes, “The hot dude who wanted to show you his dick.”

“Oh,” Armie says around realization and a slow-forming grin, “He showed me the photos he shot, just to be clear. And he’s fine.”

“And they were so good you sucked his dick.”

“Fuck, man.” Armie’s nervous laugh gives him away and Jack fist bumps him in the gut, obviously proud of himself for calling Armie out. “I never should have told you about him.”

“Probably not. Now I know without a shadow of doubt that you’re a cocksucker, Hammer.” They both laugh and Armie steals a sip of Jack’s drink, handing it back and spitting the aftertaste over the edge of the rail.

“You’re into him though?” Jack doesn’t seem willing to move the conversation elsewhere, despite Armie’s visible discomfort over the topic.

“I don’t know.” He picks up a flattened aluminum can and frisbees it towards the dumpsters. If he’s going to admit his angsty turmoil to anyone, Jack seems a safe enough candidate. “Maybe. I don’t really do the relationship thing though.”

Jack spits out a thick hunk of lettuce, glaring at Armie with his cheek full of food. “That’s wanky,” he mumbles, taking a moment to chew and swallow before continuing on. “You’re what? Thirty?”

“Twenty-eight,” Armie sighs.

“Yeah, twenty-eight. Not a relationship person, my ass. It’s about time you learned to get along well with others.”

“I get along well with you, don’t I?”

Jack snorts. “Hardly.” He winks just before Armie backhands him in the crotch. Jack nearly doubles over, blue eyes blazing like his grin. “Oh come on, I’m only taking the piss.”

“You’re a fucking leprechaun asshole,” Armie scoffs, tearing away a flap of what he sincerely hopes is turkey. He looks out over the dingy white rooftops of the buildings around them, counting each one to keep his mind occupied.

Jack’s black cherry Kickstart dances into view. “Truce?” he proposes, and Armie takes the can, pulling in a mouthful.

They’re quiet for a minute then, choking down the rest of their sandwich halves. Lunch is almost over. Then it’s three more hours of work and home to sleep off the last two weeks. He was up too late with Timmy after being up too late with his band night after night. It’s left him feeling frayed and out of sorts.

Jack disturbs the peace. “Can I ask one more question though?”

“Fuck--what?”

“This rock collection guy…”

“ _Jesus._ ”

“Fine. Photography man,” Jack amends, making the moniker flowery, with added jazz hands. “What is it about him that’s got you so keyed up?”

Armie wants to give Jack a bullshit response, avoid the topic all together, but he can hear the genuine charge in his question. He’s giving Armie the greenlight to let some of the mess inside his head spill out.

“Honestly, I wish I knew.” Armie doesn’t sift through his attraction and apparent affection for Timmy; he wouldn’t even know where to begin, let alone explain why it’s there. “All I know is it’s got a short life span.”

Jack looks confused. “Why?”

“It always does, man. Get in, get out is the only way. No one gets hurt but we both get to come.”

“So you’ll waste away a good thing just because it’s what you’ve always done.”

Armie shrugs.

Jack claps him on the shoulder, giving his chin a love-jab before offering his final thought on the subject. “Just remember, you should never have to set yourself on fire to keep someone else warm. Is that what it’s like with this dude?”

“No,” Armie says, but he isn’t actually sure.

“Then I say, go fer it. Life’s short, mate. And the world is full of shite. If you can find someone tolerable, good on ya.”

“Thanks Dr. Phil,” Armie chuckles, pushing him forward, and they head back inside.

-

Dakota is home when Armie gets back from the office. She is waiting for him in the front room, curled up on one end of the couch, head turning when he walks through the door. “How was work?”

Armie drops his keys onto a wooden side table. “Fine,” he hedges, the house too quiet, the air too dense. He walks around the back of the couch and joins her, taking a seat in a shabby velvet armchair to her left.

So much for getting home and relaxing. He can tell by the set of her jaw where this is going before she releases the question, face impassive. “You didn’t sleep here last night.”

It reminds Armie of his teenage years, being ambushed by his parents, for skipping class or borrowing the car without asking; breaking their rules. He doesn’t appreciate it, doesn’t hide that fact in his expression.

“Very astute of you,” he says, pulling loose the knot of his tie, unthreading it from around his neck and laying it over the armrest. He’s too tired for an intervention. He went from tour to Timmy’s to works and all he can stomach right now is an oxy and a nap.

Unfortunately, the universe is rarely accommodating.

Dakota does seem to catch his burnout, however. She softens by a few degrees. “Armie,” she sighs, brushing back her long curtain of hair. She rolls her lips, looking at him, but not with any scorn. Her big blue eyes are almost sad. “What are you doing?”

He wants to play dumb, tell her that he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but without any acidity in her words, his irritation deflates. Plus, with her, he’s never been anything but honest, even if it didn’t always paint him in a flattering color.

An ornate standing clock goes off down the hall, something left behind from when Dakota’s grandparents transferred to an assisted living facility and put her name on the deed. Armie remembers helping her move them out, had tripped over the carpet and very nearly shattered an entire box of Waterford crystal.

“‘Kota, relax,” Armie sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was at Timmy’s, okay? Yeah. But you have nothing to worry about.”

She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Armie smirks. “Seriously. It’s just…” He searches for the right label to put on what he and Timmy are doing, settles for something that doesn’t quite fit. “Fun. Nobody’s getting hurt.”

“What you mean is, _you’re_ not getting hurt,” Dakota says, “Timmy just got out of a long term relationship. He’s fragile, and sweet, and I love him. I know you don’t have malicious intentions, but…”

Armie takes the bait. “But what?”

“You’re handsome and charismatic, but you’re not the most thoughtful person I’ve ever met, Armie.”

She’s right, but he won’t satisfy her by saying so. His silence spurs her on, her next words prepared, picked out of the file she has on him in her head. His permanent record. “Remember Liz?”

Armie flinches, eyes sinking to his lap. Here we fucking go.

“Yeah, you and her got real cozy when she was doing merch for us on that Summer in the Pit tour, convinced her to drop her boyfriend and everything so that you two could bone. But when we got home and she wanted more, you just fucking ghosted.”

Armie rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t know Liz was so dramatic. She got clingy and weird, started making these demands. _Don’t drink. You practice too much._ ”

“She was my friend,” Dakota snaps, emotion thick in her voice. “And you were an asshole to her, straight up.” Her temper lashes out, but is caged just as quickly. Shaking herself of it, she reaches forward, scoops a pewter box from the coffee table and opens it. Inside are a few hand-rolled joints and a lighter; she has little emergency kits all over the house for different occasions. Dakota lights up, taking a few puffs before passing to Armie, letting him know that she isn’t here for blood.

Armie lifts the spliff from between her fingers. They smoke in disarming silence for a few hazy minutes.

Dakota rubs at her temple. “Listen, Timmy and Ansel breaking up right after you move back isn’t a coincidence, even if it was overdue. I just don’t want a repeat of what went down with Liz..”

“There won’t be,” Armie assures her, the pledge riding out on a fat plume of smoke.

She takes back the joint, changing directions. “Is that who you were talking to on the phone?”

Her narrowed gaze is shrewd, and eventually he nods.

“I thought, once or twice, but every night it was him?”

“Not every night,” he says, defensive, needing to slow her down before she gets carried away with this. It isn’t a big deal, but her reaction is why he was trying to keep his casual interest in Timmy on the down-low. Dakota has always been fiercely loyal to her friends, and she’s always seen Armie as a danger to them. Knowing where this path leads, he pivots, “And, hey, why aren’t you ever worried about me? Timmy could break my little heart.”

She glares at him, but her disbelief shifts into good humor. “You’re hilarious,” she tells him, and he smiles, relieved that the storm clouds are parting. “Just don’t hurt him, okay? There are plenty of emo fish in the sea for you to fuck your way through. This one isn’t thick-skinned enough for you and I love him too much to let you mess him up.”

“Yes, fine. Whatever makes you happy,” Armie shrugs. His immediate concern is moving Dakota away from this subject. He can ruminate on what she’s said later, but knows deep down that she’s right to worry, valid in her inclination to tell Armie off.

Timmy did end a three year relationship after Armie entered his life, and though he doesn’t feel a whole lot of responsibility in that decision, perhaps he should. Which means that he would be responsible for what comes after, too.

And that, Armie isn’t ready for.

Stealing hearts is a rush, but he’s never known what to do them, has always just watched them flutter and fade in the palm of his hand once they were his, disposing of them once they’d gone cold.

Dakota brings him back to the moment, pushing up from the couch. She walks over to him, a lazy goddess in silk harem pants and a tube top, and rubs her palm over his fuzzy hair. “It’s getting long,” she says, “Come on, I’ll buzz it for you.”

Armistice reached, Armie playfully spins his head against her hand, making her laugh. Then he’s up too and following her down the hall to sit on the closed toilet lid while she plays hairdresser.

The mood is decidedly more jovial in the bathroom while Dakota drags the clippers over his head, first cutting out a sloppy mohawk. Armie tells her that it looks like a landing strip and she laughs, nearly relieving him of one of his eyebrows.

It looks good when she’s finished, even as far as he can tell but she isn’t satisfied and demands to shave “that shit” off his face too, calling him a delinquent.

Armie humors her, lets her coat his face in shaving cream and have her way, but a minute or two later he has three tabs of toilet paper stuck to his face plugging up cuts.

“Alright, Edward Scissorhands, you’re done.” He has to forcibly remove the razor from her hand and kick her out of the bathroom. She goes laughing, telling him that she needs to start dinner anyway. She blows him a kiss and leaves him to salvage what’s left of his face.

-

Later that night, Armie’s phone buzzes with a text. He pours in a swirl of liquid detergent over his clothes from tour and shuts the washer, starting its rinse cycle before picking up his phone.

Timmy:  
i know its weird bc youre back in town but i miss you calling

Armie’s initial reaction is to be warmed by the confession. He’s been feeling kind of off tonight too, had assumed it was the crash of getting back to his 9-5, but now pieces together the possibility that something else may be at work. The hollow in his gut could be due to the lack of Timmy’s deep, boisterous laugh in his ear, his sultry whisper once their conversations inevitably took a turn towards sex.

Armie’s thumb hovers over the call button, considering. The thought of hearing Timmy’s voice through his phone works like muscle memory on his dick, which pulses awake, but then he hears Dakota laughing through the wall, in the living room where she’s watching TV.

Their earlier conversation comes slamming into sharp focus and he clicks off the screen, guilt knotting itself into his throat. She’d looked at him in such a way, determined and scared but not unfamiliarly so, just an expression he hadn’t been the recipient of in some time.

Liz was a miscalculation, but his treatment of her had shockwaves, nearly leveling his relationship with Dakota.

It’s something he won’t risk again

Armie’s gut churns with disappointment when he pockets his phone and heads back into the main house, but he knows he’s made the right call.

There’s no sense breathing life into this thing with Timmy. He spent most of tonight thinking it through and still can’t map out a scenario in his head where it doesn’t end badly.

Somewhere along the way, his simple lust has grown legs. If he doesn’t kill it soon, it will be able to outrun him.

-

To celebrate Armie’s return to the office, he and Jack go out for drinks Friday after work. _So_ many drinks.

They end up shitfaced before midnight, arm over shoulder as they stumble from bar to bar, until Jack finds a redhead to follow home and Armie eventually throws himself into an Uber. He bursts out of the car at the curb just in time to puke all over a flowering bush outside of Dakota’s house and crashes on the couch, motor skills too impaired to even kick out of his boots.

Armie doesn’t see the missed call from Timmy until he’s charging his phone the next morning, haunting the kitchen in a useless attempt to cure his hangover with fried eggs and bacon.

“Have a good night?” Dakota grins from over a steaming mug of tea, appearing out of thin air to lean against the counter. Armie swats her ass with his spatula to herd her out of the way so he can bring down a plate from the cupboard.

“From what I remember, yeah.”

She plucks a strip of bacon from a square of paper towel, lowering it into her mouth. “You should bring this Jack person over sometime. I want to meet him.”

“You’d eat him alive,” Armie tells her, plating his eggs. Wordlessly, she slides over a bottle of hot sauce, knowing better.than to defend herself against his claim. Even though Armie is the one who’s been known to leave his romantic interests with road rash, she’s done her fair share of breaking hearts, always sweet and diplomatic about it, but too flighty to stay with one man for long.

She follows him around the other side of the counter, perching next to him on the spare barstool, unfazed. “I’m hosting an acoustic show here tonight, you could invite him.”

Armie doesn’t respond right away, scraping his fork over the eggs. “He’s busy,” he says with a mouthful of goo.

“Shame,” Dakota sighs, sneaking under his arm to break off another tail of bacon. “Can you let Timmy know for me? First band starts at nine and he’s been wanting to shoot something here for awhile.”

Swallowing, Armie turns his head to glare at her. “A, your thumbs aren’t broken--text the kid yourself, and b, weren’t you just telling me off about him a few days ago?”

Dakota flips her hair, an expert of the eye roll, clearly finding his point unworthy of an answer. She gestures into the kitchen, at a stacked bag of rice next to the coffee maker. “I’m drying it out. Chris threw me in his pool with my phone last night.”

‘Nice,” Armie snickers, shying away when she starts swatting him on the shoulder and ribs. He shields his breakfast from her onslaught, dragging the plate out of range.

“Just freaking tell Timmy about tonight, okay?”

He laughs, catching one of her wrists in mid-air. “Mercy, woman! Yes. Okay!”

-

After breakfast, Armie steps out of a boiling shower feeling like a new fucking man. He swipes a hand over the steam that’s clinging to the mirror and looks himself over with apathetic regard.

Not bad.

Since breakfast he hasn’t stopped thinking about Dakota’s request that he tell Timmy about the house show. Surely he would’ve heard about it via another outlet— shared friends, social media, fucking _Facebook_?

He brushes his teeth and rolls on deodorant, side-eyeing his phone that’s charging on a shelf the entire time. He could cop-out and send a text but it’s not worth compromising his morals just because he doesn’t have the balls to talk to Timmy. What is it about this kid that has him second guessing everything? It’s infuriating.

Just to prove a point to himself, to show that he _can handle this_ like an adult, without catching feelings or getting carried away, Armie snags his phone and dials Timmy’s number from memory.

Timmy answers after two rings and Armie feels his throat constrict at the sound of his voice. He must have been napping, his _“Armie?”_ raspy and slurred.

Armie closes his eyes and burns the images of sleepy Timmy curled in bed out of his mind.

Timmy’s voice comes through the phone in one soft, edgeless breath, “Hey stranger.”

Armie doesn’t acknowledge the fact he hasn’t responded to Timmy’s text or call since the morning after their sleepover, despite the presence of it in Timmy’s greeting.

“There’s an acoustic set tonight at Dakota’s,” he informs, overly cool, distant. Armie avoids his own reflection in the mirror. “You gonna come by with that camera of yours?”

“Oh. Yeah, I mean,” Timmy sounds like he’s shuffling around in bed. Armie’s body reacts to the sounds of Timmy’s bed squeals under impact, remembering. He sighs. “Do you want me to?”

 _Yes,_ Armie thinks. There’s an image in his mind’s eye of Timmy writhing under him, every piece of him needy. Armie wets his mouth, re-gripping the phone.

Before he speaks, the picture goes blurry, focus stolen for unhappy portraits of Dakota and Liz. He shakes them out of his head, tells Timmy that, “I’m just the messenger. Dakota dropped her phone in a pool.”

Timmy’s, “oh,” of understanding has an audible ellipsis. It makes Armie’s stomach hurt. He breathes out.

“It’s going to be a good show, so she says,” he flounders. “You should come.”

Timmy breathes a laugh, the sound hollow even through the phone. “I have work. Maybe after.”

“What time are you off?” Armie asks. He’s overcompensating, probably obvious, but hopes for the best. “Shit won’t kick off until later. With musicians, nothing is ever on time.”

“True,” Timmy agrees, a little more feeling in his voice. “I’ll try to stop over. I did want to shoot something there.”

“Good. See you then.”

“Bye.”

-

When evening rolls around, Armie throws himself into the party, a despairing attempt to avoid thinking about this whole thing with Timmy. It’s snowballed since he got home and is threatening to overwhelm. His eyes roam the scene, wary of his arrival each time a new group pushes in through the front door.

All the furniture in the living room has been arranged against one wall to make room for a small, makeshift stage area where two different acoustic duos will be playing. Soft indie music isn’t really Armie’s thing but after sharing a joint and a six pack with Dev, he settles on the idea that tonight’s line-up might not be _that bad._

“You look like shit, mate. You good?” Dev speaks candidly and Armie nods, glancing down towards his feet that are shoved into an old, beat up pair of vans. No socks. But Armie knows that Dev doesn’t mean his clothes -- black running shorts and a battered white t-shirt, ripped at the collar, probably a casualty from a fist fight he can’t remember anymore.

“Just hungover,” Armie answers, gripping the neck of his PBR, lifting it to take a long swig. He rattles the can in showing, “Hair of the dog.”

Dev accepts his excuse and they crack their drinks together before finishing them off. Then Dev leaves, waves at someone past Armie’s shoulder and sneaks around him to help bring in the speakers and mic stands.

The living room is steadily filling up, the usual suspects along with a good helping of new faces sifting in, bringing along drinks and the occasional amp. Armie looks through the growing crowd for the douche he ended up swinging on a few weeks ago. He’d rather avoid that kind of drama tonight, but if the shitstarter is here, he’d like to deal with it sooner than later, when he’s had more to drink and less holding him back.

A girl with green hair and big tits orbits around him for a little while before coming over. She looks up at him with kohl-rimmed eyes and asks if he’s in Dakota’s band, thinks she’s seen him play with DLID before.

“Yeah, I just moved back,” he answers. “She was doing some acoustic shit, like this, while I was gone.”

The girl nods. “That’s rad.” She’s cute, too skinny but with full lips and white skin. He thinks about using her as a palate cleanser, to rid himself of Timmy’s taste, but for all he knows she’s one of Dakota’s favorite people too; everyone here might be off limits in her eyes. Plus, beyond the suggestion of getting under somebody new as a means to an end, fucking her holds little appeal.

He hasn’t said anything in almost a minute, and she seems to pick up the vibe, turns awkwardly and makes eyes at someone she must know. “Well, I better get back to my friend. See you…”

“Armie,” he provides, and has already mentally moved on by the time she gives her own name. He doesn’t catch it.

Dev plugs into an outlet near where he’s standing, walking back over once he’s upright again.

“Timmy’s here,” he says, and Armie stares at him.

“And?” he drones. Dev pins him with a look, unimpressed.

Electricity zings under his skin and Armie’s eyes are pulled towards the door. They seem to know where Timmy is before even landing. He’s just come inside, bottlenecked in the foyer by two semi-circles of people chatting, pulled in by one of the clusters, everyone happy to see him.

Armie uses the extra time to check Timmy out.

He’s never considered himself to have a “type,” but if he did, the skinny kid he was looking at now -- wearing cuffed pinstripe pants, those same old school Nike high tops he’s seen before, a black shirt with a thick chain hanging over the neck, and a hat with a naked woman embroidered on it -- would not fit his definition.

That said, it only takes a minute of watching Timmy, seeing the way his eyes crinkle, his off kilter teeth shining in a wide smile, the wheezy, breathless laugh between breaks in the music to remind Armie that he absurdly captivating. He’s never actually _seen_ anyone quite like Timmy, and now that they’ve known each other for a short while, he’s definitely never met anyone like him either.

When Timmy finally makes it past the entranceway, he combs the room, right to left.

Armie doesn’t hide his gaze. He knows Timmy is looking for him, intense green eyes softening into familiarity when they land on him. Armie nods, chin up, half-smile in recognition.

Timmy swipes two IPAs from an ice chest against the wall before he’s at Armie’s feet.

“Hey.” He smiles at Dev and hands a beer over to Armie. “What’s up?”

Armie ignores Dev’s curious gaze when Timmy pulls his keys from his belt loop and opens Armie’s beer before his own, as if it’s routine, opening drinks for each other.

“Hey,” Armie intones, unbalanced by the gesture, slowly raising the bottle to his lips.

Timmy happily fills in the silence, looking between them, red lips curling with pleasantries. “Has the first band started yet? I came here straight from work. Somebody toppled a mountain of tangerines five minutes before closing and I had to stay late stacking it back up.”

Does Timmy think that because Armie slept over, they’re dating? His pulse stumbles, Dev speaking up when Timmy’s question is still hanging in the air.

“You’re good. They’re setting up now, will probably faff around and be ready in another five-ish?”

“Cool, cool.” Timmy shifts his shoulders, a camera hanging from his neck. Armie watches him struggle with it until their eyes meet and Timmy grins sheepishly. “Can you hold this for a second?”

Armie reaches out on auto pilot to hold Timmy’s beer bottle for him, returning a small smile when Timmy’s eyes stick on his face.

He lights up at the reciprocation, then dips his head between them to fidget with his camera. Armie is hit by a cloud of his shampoo scent, dark curls only a few inches below his chin; if Armie were to crane his neck, he’d be able to bite one.

Timmy’s nimble fingers pull off the lens cap and expertly make any necessary adjustments for shooting motion in low light. Dev’s saying something to Armie about their next practice day, but Armie doesn’t hear him. He’s distracted, admiring the way Timmy’s face pinches behind the camera when he holds it over his eyes to gauge that it’s where he wants it. Armie wishes he’d close his damn mouth, his fleshy bottom lip hanging open in concentration, ripe and wet.

“Good enough,” he announces moments later with a little shrug, letting the weight of the camera drop again. He takes back his beer, their hands touching.

Dev claps silently. “Bravo. I still want to see what you shot of us at The Peach Pit.”

“For sure,” Timmy grins, “I just need to scan them, then I’ll throw them online. I caught a few nice moments. Like this one of Armie…” His gaze shifts, shining and warm, over to Armie, but then it’s dragged a bit lower.

Armie stares at him. “What?”

Timmy’s grin goes wide and crooked. “You have an eyelash on your face,” he laughs, and without any warning reaches carefully to brush it away with his thumb, fingers trailing down the side of Armie’s cheek on their descent.

It’s an intimate display of affection, unearned and unwanted.

Armie presses his teeth together, supremely uncomfortable. He checks in with Dev, hoping against him having seen. But of course he has, standing only a foot away, and now smiling broadly, giddy with the idea that Armie might have allowed Timmy to be soft with him before.

Compounded with Dakota’s explicit instructions not to consort with Timmy, and his own clusterfuck of feelings on the subject, it’s too much. He bails.

“I need a cigarette,” he breathes out, no spaces between his words, and heads for the back patio.

He can feel Timmy on his heels while he walks, and then his hand is snagging on Armie’s wrist.

“What’s up with you?” Timmy asks, backlit by a green-tinted porch light.

Armie disappears farther back into the yard, away from the sliding door, Timmy tethering them together, coming with. “I’m good,” he says, stopping to fish out a cigarette, not looking at Timmy while he lights up and re-stashes the pack. He fills his lungs and blows out a column of smoke before re-meeting his eyes.

Timmy doesn’t look placated. His face is open and honest, uncertainty knitted into his brow. He reaches to grab at the back of his neck. “You sure? You seem...I don’t know. Fucking, weird. ”

And it’s probably all the beer, but Armie’s discomfort starts to burn away in the face of Timmy’s unease now that they’re alone. “Just...be cool,” he says lamely, turning his wrist out to offer Timmy a pull from his cigarette.

“Whatever that means,” Timmy says with a shrug before fitting his lips around the filter, sucking in with his eyes lifted up to look into Armie’s. He hollows his cheeks more than necessary, the gesture bold, lascivious.

Armie chuckles, body swaying nearer. The foundation of his self-control is easily demolished by Timmy’s ample mouth.

They smoke in congenial quiet. Armie softens when Timmy tells him a dirty joke and his smile lights his face up, eyes crinkled in self-aggrandizing pride when Armie tells him, “You’re a fucking pervert.”

Armie ashes the cigarette against the back fence when someone opens the sliding door, stepping out onto the patio, scanning the area. Armie only gives him a cursory glance, drawn by the sound, but then the figure starts walking over. His hackles go up.

Timmy only turns when he realizes that Armie’s attention has been pulled away.

“Hey,” the guy says, and Timmy’s entire energy shifts, posture going taught.

“Ansel,” he breathes.

Internally, Armie startles, nearly drops his cigarette onto a dead aloe plant.

So this is who Timmy’s been tied to for so long. Armie can’t quite picture the pair--tangled up, kissing, fucking, Timmy making _those sounds_ he’s grown accustomed to having in his ear on a nightly basis. It’s an image that doesn’t sit right and Armie isn’t sure if the tightness in his gut is a welcomed one.

Ansel is tall, taking up almost as much space as he does, and he’s good-looking, in a sterile sort of way. His hair looks stupid, his white polo villainous against the backdrop of this party. His lips curve with too much effort.

On sight, Armie doesn’t like him, and steadied by protectiveness, he recovers quickly. “Can we help you?”

Ansel’s gaze snaps to him, narrowing and then going very wide. “ _This fucking guy?_ ” he balks, his tone sharpened by disbelief. Armie tilts his chin with an arrogant swell of pride. Ansel looks him up and down, and it’s more than obvious by his expression that he is perturbed by what he sees; Armie couldn't give a fuck less what this guy thinks do him. “This is who you’re fucking now?”

Armie’s lips flicker into a smile and he snorts, amused.

Timmy shuffles between them, looking frantically up in both directions. He’s probably worried that Armie wants to hit him. Good. “Ansel, stop. Just. What are you doing here?”

Ansel doesn’t lower his eyes to Timmy’s. His glare is stuck on Armie. “This is who answered your phone when I called.”

Armie squares his shoulders.

Timmy puts a hand out, floats it in front of Ansel to keep him back, leant away so that his shoulderblades are grazing Armie’s chest. “Seriously, Ansel, what are you doing here? You hate house parties.”

Timmy seems to be working through something in the way his voice sways. Ansel picks up on the change in tone before Armie can, which is unsettling.

Ansel’s anger splinters. His eyes soften. “I know but I needed to see you and—”

That’s when Armie realizes he needs to get the fuck out of here, this entire interaction a bucket of cold water being dumped over his head. It wakes him up. He’s been sleep-walking.

“Yeah, fuck this,” he interjects, gripping Timmy’s waist to move his slight figure out of his way with minimal effort. Timmy twists on his toes, his back to Ansel and wide, apologetic green eyes on Armie. They beg for understanding. He anchors his hands on Armie’s chest but they are plucked off easily.

“I’m sorry, Just give me a few minutes,” Timmy whispers and Armie huffs a bitter-tasting laugh.

“It’s been real.”

He steps around Ansel, giving him a wide berth, and feels two pairs of eyes tracking his departure.

There isn’t enough beer in the world to smooth out his mood right now.

Armie makes a beeline for the bathroom, breaking apart two people kissing with a bark to get out. The ceramic mermaid on the back of the toilet reveals her secrets willingly and he makes short work of setting up two lines on the porcelain basin. They disappear up his nose in one breath, flashbacks of Timmy doing coke with him going off like fireworks behind his eyes. Armie can feel the wet heat of Timmy’s mouth, especially when he smears his thumb over the residue and rubs it over his gums. It isn’t the same and the disappointment is electrifying.

Armie thinks that if he could go back in time, he would. Kick the kid out of the bathroom and finish pissing in peace, easily find another pair of legs to welcome him home and avoid slipping into this entire mess.

After re-shelving the mermaid stash, Armie steals into Dakota’s room and shuts the door. The music is hollow against his ear drums as it vibrates through the walls, it’s slow and stirring. He doesn’t want to hear it, knowing Timmy is out there. With Ansel.

There is an old CD boombox next to the closet, one of its speakers busted. Armie presses play on whatever’s inside and lays back on Dakota’s bed to wait for the cocaine to hit. Ready to wash away the rest of tonight.

The Violent Femmes starts up, and time passes slowly.

A few songs in, somebody knocks.

“Not in the mood, Dakota,” Armie calls out, but it isn’t her checking up on him.

Timmy cracks the door, “Armie?” he asks, and Armie’s head swivels. Just his luck. Timmy scoots in, running his palms over the fronts of his thighs awkwardly before shutting the door. Armie sits up, his pupils blown, focus intense.

“Ansel is gone.”

“Okay.”

Timmy looks harrowed by whatever went on between him and his ex. His eyes are pink around the edges, bottom lip swollen as though it’s been ground up in worry.

Armie can’t find it in himself to ask if he’s alright. He doesn’t want to open them up to conversation again. He needs a break, or perspective, something that requires Timmy’s absence, which is what he thought he was going to get. Timmy continues to prove him wrong.

“Are you mad at me?”

Armie stands up, walks over to Timmy who is waiting in front of the door, wringing his hands. The smell of liquor burns his nostrils as soon as he’s close. Armie thinks the chat with Ansel must have gone poorly and though he’s bitterly satisfied with that thought, it’s not enough.

“Let’s talk tomorrow,” he says in a strained voice. “Tonight’s not the night.” Armie pats Timmy on the shoulder before reaching around his waist to pull open the door. Timmy shifts aside to let him through and when their eyes connect he feels his high take a nosedive.

People are wedged together in the hall, the space too small for everyone to fit. A few of them try to get Armie’s attention, with eyes or hands, but he squeezes by them.

The band playing sounds bearable, some mellow, sad bastard lyrics with an acoustic guitar wailing away in the background.

Each chord stings him, and he picks up speed, aiming for the front door.

Timmy follows after and Armie can’t put enough distance between them, stretching his long legs to maximum potential, but Timmy tails him through the living room and out the door, calling his name, striding down the stone walkway out front.

“Tomorrow,” Armie calls back, invisible scarabs under his skin, making him twitch. He can’t shake him, literally or figuratively.

He jumps down into the road and Timmy finally comes to a stop, at the curb.

Both sides of the street are filled bumper to bumper with empty cars. The party echoes down the block, voices and music floating over the summer-dense heat radiating from the cement and asphalt.

Armie scans the cars for witnesses; the only one with any occupants is a volvo filled with smoke. He was hoping for peace, but at this point he’ll settle for their inevitable blowout being kept between him and Timmy.

Timmy, whose entire demeanor has changed, now looms defiantly and demands attention from the curb. He projects his voice and brings Armie to a standstill with one monotone accusation.

“You slept with someone the night DLID played Seattle, didn’t you?”

Armie’s skin is crawling. He can’t think. He searches around before turning back on Timmy, gesturing for him to lower his voice. Armie takes two steps towards him. “What now?”

His head is buzzing, trying to fill the gaps in his reasoning, to decide where in his month of knowing Timmy he’d screwed up enough to put them in a state of arguing in the goddamn street. This is too much-- _Timmy_ is too much.

“Don’t lie to me,” Timmy warns, a wobble hidden in his grit. Unbelievable.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Armie bites back, steadied by the uneven playing field. Timmy is half a foot taller than him where he stands on the curb.

Timmy throws his shoulders up, his mouth a narrow, straight line. “I saw a picture.”

“Of me fucking someone?” Armie asks, incredulous.

Timmy bristles, dropping down into the gutter, white Nikes splashing into the runoff from somebody’s evening car wash. He taps his toes a few time against the soapy rivulets. “No, obviously not. But I could tell what was going on.”

Armie racks his brain, coming around to the idea that Timmy is a bonafide lunatic. Seattle is a motion blur of music, drugs, drinking and friends. People from his old job who came out to see him play, the after party Dev led them to once things wrapped up. Who was there?

By process of elimination--something Armie is in no shape for currently--he realizes who Timmy must be talking about, even though he can’t put together how he’d seen him, which is unsettling to the extreme.

“Dark hair, a little shorter than me?” Confirmation. “Jesus, Timmy. That’s my friend. Nick.”

“Yeah, well, just because he’s your friend doesn’t mean you haven’t fucked him…” Timmy’s voice trails, weaker, but still coiled. He’s still poised for a fight.

Timmy’s accusation sounds like ownership. It’s constricting, making Armie’s heart beat faster, his lungs unable to take in air. He feels the hairs on his body prickle. This is exactly what he didn’t want, to be accountable for another person’s feelings. And Timmy seemed to have a lot of them, mostly uncontrolled.

“Who I fuck is none of your business.” Armie speaks harshly, seeing red. He feels his palms starting to sweat with aggravation. “And you, Timmy, you can fuck or get fucked by anyone you want.” He motions between them. “We are not a _thing_.”

Timmy’s brow furrows, his eyes flashing in challenge. “We’re not,” he concedes, taking a deep breath, “but I like you. And you like me--don’t deny it.”

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Armie says, walking backwards, beginning to view this conversation as a time bomb he doesn’t have the tact to diffuse.

Timmy seems to be searching for what he wants to say. He wets his mouth, gaze stringing words together in the dark sky. “Ansel and I are over,” he says slowly, standing up and following. “And I, I like you.”

“Yeah, you said that already.”

“Well I fucking mean it,” Timmy shrugs, hesitating so he can fish out a cigarette from his back pocket. Armie’s eyes follow his movements, his jaw clenching when he sees Timmy pop the stick into his mouth. “Do you _actually_ not give a shit or are you just used to pretending like you don’t?” Timmy sucks furiously on the cigarette before he realizes he’s lit the wrong end. He throws it down into the gutter with his face red, shoulders defeated.

This is just a preview of what being serious with Timmy would entail, and Armie wants no part of it. His voice is cut and dry, practiced indifference meeting real anger. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

Timmy doesn’t say anything, his mouth twisted into a knot.

Without a comeback to parry, a layer of cruelty lifts away and Armie heaves a sigh, kicking the toe of his sneaker into the asphalt. “Look, if you wanted to run off into the sunset with someone, or be in a _serious committed relationship_ then maybe you should have stayed with Ansel.”

Timmy’s eyes glaze over and Armie can tell that he’s struck an exposed nerve. His face dances with expression, all facets too complex for Armie to analyze in this heated, intoxicated state. He doesn’t know if Timmy’s sad, or angry; they’ve both had too much to drink, and he’s still worked up from the bathroom lines.

“I’m not trying to like --” Timmy steps forward, offering out his arms in exasperation. “Like, _lock you down_ or some shit. That’s not what this is.” Timmy throws a hand behind his head, gripping the back of his neck no doubt, and Armie looks away, dubious of his own self-control.

“What is _this_ , Timmy?” he asks, shaking his head in premeditated disappointment. It’s going to be better if he shoots Timmy down now, lets him go before things get carried away, keep the damage minimal.

Timmy reaches between them, watching his fingers glance against Armie’s chest, delicate and cautious. “I don’t know. I thought we were just having fun.”

Armie covers his hands, crumples them in his grip and throws them back. “This isn’t fun for me.”

A few people leave the party then, boisterous, stumbling towards a truck parked in front of the neighbor’s. Timmy and him hit pause until they shut the doors and the engine rumbles to life. Timmy is massaging his knuckles, looking up at Armie from under his brows, his expression wounded and dark.

They speed off and he starts up again. “You’re bullshit,” he snarls, putting his hand back on Armie’s chest, both of them. He shoves, hard, and Armie stumbles a step backward. “You fucking want me, Armie. _I know that._ But you’re scared, so you treat me like shit.”

“Wait a minute,” Armie growls, “Up until two weeks ago you had a boyfriend, a boyfriend that just showed up here. Tonight.”

Timmy punches Armie further backwards with flat palms, frustration bubbling over. “I fucking told you. That’s done.”

“So’s this,” Armie tells him. There’s no emotion in his voice. Timmy’s, on the other hand, is drowning in it.

“Why are you being like this?” he hisses, jaw tight. “I can’t control Ansel. I asked him to leave. What do you want from me?”

Between Armie’s talk with Jack and his talk with Dakota, and Ansel’s surprise appearance tonight, and what’s happening now, he has whiplash.

Armie is in a tailspin and it feels like the only option at this point is pull the string on his parachute. He grabs Timmy’s forearms and bends them back, speaking slowly and from a few inches away. “Nothing, Timmy.”

Armie scrubs both hands over his face, but it does nothing to extinguish the wildfire of his mood. It eats up any reason and logic left in him. It’s going to burn them both.

“I’m not doing this. Fighting in the street with you like an unhappy married couple? It’s fucked.”

Timmy takes a second to have a tantrum, tearing at his hair, mumbling under his breath. Then, suddenly he’s composed again, and any trace of sadness or fear is gone. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, almost laughing, shaking his head. “And you’re right. This is nothing, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

His words are a shock to Armie’s system, his eerie calm breaking through the low of his drug-filled stupor. Timmy looks almost unrecognizable in his stoic demeanor, cold green eyes, flat white face. But Armie doesn’t do anything about it, just keeps watching Timmy — watching him give up, on the fight, on him, and, still chuckling to himself, throw up both middle fingers and walk away.

Timmy doesn’t get into a car, just turns at the end of the block and disappears out of view.

Armie stands still, stunned, in the middle of the street for a couple minutes longer. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to process everything that just happened, or what it’s done to alter his near future.

A chorus of chanting in the distance brings him back to life and he numbly walks up the sidewalk, and the steps, entering the house to continued applause.

Dakota is standing on the couch in the front room, and everyone has glasses raised, thrusting them upwards. She isn’t alone.

“We are all so thrilled to have you back in town, babe. Best surprise ever!” she hollers, jostling their special guest. Armie blinks in a mess of familiar black curls.

Stood next to her on the couch, in white socks and plaid pants is their friend, Matty Healy, home from rehab and grinning ear to ear under her arm.

“3...2...1...To Matty!”

 

-

**_for goodness sake_ **

**_i wasn't told you'd be this cold_ **

**_now it's my time to depart_ **

**_and i just had a change of heart_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we added the 'angst with a happy ending' tag.


	7. if i believe you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously, hearing back from you guys in comments and kudos etc has been the highlight of so many days. here’s a big one for you. 
> 
> fictional, per usual.
> 
> <3, oyb & cpx

 

Timmy listens to Elliot Smith on repeat and sleeps for a week.

-

His apartment becomes an open grave for empty salad containers and half-finished bottles of fresh pressed juice from Whole Foods.

When he isn’t working a shift, he’s home alone, burning away brain cells by getting high and watching endless episodes of mindless tv.

The floor fan broke a few days ago but Timmy hasn’t had the energy to go to Target to pick up a replacement. Rent is due. He’s pushing his luck on the electric bill. Laundry day keeps getting moved back; everything smells like weed and hot ranch.

The silver lining? His Netflix subscription is still current. Leslie Knope has more than enough positive mental attitude for the both of them right now.

Netflix asks if he’s still watching and Timmy sits up with a grunt. Now is as good a time as any to smoke the last joint he has. Even walking down the block to his go-to dispensary feels like a task he can’t stomach.

Timmy’s phone vibrates on top of a deflated bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos as he searches for his lighter and the buzzing sound makes him jump. Every notification gives him a jolt of anxiety. The list of people he doesn’t want it to be keeps growing, his inbox an infinite scroll of conversations he doesn’t have the energy to acknowledge.

It’s only because he’s feeling more numb than sad at the moment that he checks to see who’s pinging him now.

Dakota:  
Are you ever going to pick this up or can I pawn it?

She’s attached a photo of his camera to her text. It’s sitting on top of her white floral duvet.

He remembers leaving it there last weekend; Saturday was a night full of leaving and he just hasn’t had the gumption to return to the scene of his crimes yet. Timmy pecks the tiny keyboard with his thumb.

Timmy:  
ha ha

Timmy:  
ive been busy. soon?

She’s writing him back immediately, her bullshit detector guaranteed for a 10 mile radius.

Dakota:  
The coast is clear. Come by tonight? I want to look at you.

Timmy rolls his eyes, a reluctant smile appling his cheeks. As scary as it sounds, he knows spending time outside of his shame cave could improve his mood, especially if it means getting babied by Dakota.

Timmy:  
miss your face ok

He gets up, led by her little blue speech bubbles, and navigates through the ground zero that is his apartment floor. He steps into the bathroom and turns on the shower, sending Dakota ugly snapchat selfies while the water gets warm.

It’s easy to pretend that this is a good idea until he undresses and has to set his phone aside. He tries, and fails, not to imagine Armie naked here with him. Under the spray, there is nothing to babysit his brain, and it quickly unseals all of the boxes marked Fragile that he’s spent this week taping shut.

Timmy accidentally washes his hair twice, ensnared by barbed rememberings of the past weekend; Armie, disaffected and cold, telling him off for deigning to _like_ him. Ansel, with tears in his eyes, wanting to understand where they had gone so wrong.

The memories taste like ash and Timmy tips his face up into the spray, eyes closed, mouth open, in an attempt to wash them away. He gargles and spits but the aftertaste is just as bitter.

He can hear Armie’s low, rumbling voice. ‘ _Nothing, Timmy._ ’ Pretending that whatever was between them lived only in Timmy’s head.

Armie is a liar, and a coward, running away because he’s scared. Timmy could almost forgive him if it were the truth, but knowing he isn’t worth the risk to Armie--or even the effort from Ansel, makes him feel unworthy.

It’s nauseating. Infuriating.

Though in the moment, Armie’s defiant weakness had incensed Timmy, that anger left him almost immediately. Before he’d even made it out of the neighborhood he was forcing himself not to turn heel and run back, to tell Armie that they should just go on as though tonight never happened and talk about everything in the morning like he’d first proposed while in Dakota’s room--a proposal Timmy had eagerly steamrolled over.

It was too late for any of that now.

His phone has been quiet on both the Armie, and the Ansel fronts.

Seeing Timmy with Armie really fucked Ansel up. Timmy knows the break-up still hadn’t felt permanent to him until the man who answered Timmy’s phone late one night was seen to be real, brooding and handsome and nothing like what Ansel felt he represented to Timmy. It made Ansel question everything, the entire time they were together. _‘That’s what you like?’_ he’d balked, and Timmy hadn’t taken the time Ansel deserved to talk him down. He was disrespectful to their relationship and dismissed him, telling him off for showing up unannounced. Didn’t he see that they were over?

Timmy was more concerned with how Armie was taking this minor interruption than how Ansel was taking the loss of 3 years together.

In the steam he is confronted by a truth he’s come around to in the past few days. It blinks at him in bright neon whenever Timmy isn’t sufficiently distracted: He is selfish.

Too wrapped up in self-loathing, he miscalculates the stream and gets a shot of shampoo water in his eye. “Fuck,” he yells, quickly washing his hands so that he can rub the sting out. But pain tears only lead to real tears, and Timmy spends the next five minutes stuttering breath with one hand held out against the tile wall for balance.

He finishes his shower unsure of whether or not he ever got around to conditioning. The loofah in his hand is wet, the only indicator that he soaped up.

He steps out onto the bathmat in a daze of upset, looking like he’s been run over by a train. Eyes puffy from crying and bloodshot from irritation. His silhouette is brittle and pale-looking in the fogged up mirror. Timmy drags four fingers over the condensation to strike over the reflection of his face.

Drying off, he reaches for his phone. He’s in no shape to hang out with anyone. He’s going to cancel tonight’s plans and just stay in. He isn’t ready.

But there are notifications waiting for him when he taps on the screen, two text messages covering his lock screen image of sea otters holding hands.

Dakota:  
Don’t eat! I’m making your favorite...

Dakota:  
Spaghetti bolognese xoxo

His heart squeezes. _Shit,_ he loves her.

Okay. Fine.

Nothing is hanging in the closet; all of his clothing is in piles on the floor, and the foot of his bed, and the small table where he eats. Timmy sweep through the mess, picking up different articles and smelling them, having to put almost everything back.

Clean laundry Timmy’s first casualty whenever he’s depressed.

Eventually, he scrapes something together that will keep him from being arrested for public indecency, leaving his apartment in a faded olive green T-shirt and cut off Dickies.

  
-

Timmy knocks out of courtesy when he arrives but enters without waiting for anyone to get the door. Dakota’s voice echoes from the kitchen as the door closes behind him.

“Hey, baby!” she calls out.

Timmy spots his camera sitting on the wooden table in the foyer. He loops it over his neck, feeling like he’s been reunited with a limb he didn’t know he’d lost. His mouth curves downward when he thinks of the empty roll of film inside of it. He never got a chance to snap any photos of the bands last week, but then again, maybe that’s a blessing. He didn’t need reminders of what happened; his blank roll will make it easier to forget.

There’s a hiss from the room over and Dakota’s flirty laugh. Something is sizzling. It smells incredible and Timmy follows after it, imagines that he must look like a cartoon character floating nose-first towards a pie. After subsisting on grocery store take out, he ready for some real fucking food.

Timmy rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops dead, body swaying back at his sudden halt, heart dislodged inside of his ribcage.

Someone is sitting on one of the counter stools, their back momentarily facing him but Timmy must have made a noise because the man swivels towards him slowly, chin over shoulder, long curls pulled back into a low ponytail. He waves and Timmy goes a bit wobbly.

“Oh. I didn’t know you had people over,” he says, strangled by nerves. He isn’t in any shape to be seen by a stranger.

Dakota swings around. “It’s just Matty,” she laughs, batting away his hesitation with a sauce-messy spoon. “Timmy, Matty. Matty, Timmy.”

Her introduction flings red specks of sauce all over the countertop.

“Cheers, good to meet you,” Matty says, flicks his chin by way of greeting, smiling. His accent throws Timmy and he fumbles, mimics the gesture when he can’t find words to speak, anxiously smoothing back his hair that he suddenly regrets not brushing.

Matty confirms Timmy’s theory that everyone Dakota knows could be a supermodel. He is thin and sharp-featured, like a charcoal line drawing, and androgynously handsome. The light lays flat against the plane of his cheek until it is curved by a smirk.

Like Armie, Timmy has heard stories about Matty. Not as many, but enough that he feels unbalanced by their meeting. Matty makes enough money with his band that it’s become his career, and more recently, his affliction.

According to Saoirse, he checked himself into rehab for a heroin addiction two months ago.

They’ve been stood there in silence for over a minute before Dakota frees them from it. She puts a lid on a big pot and hurries over, wrapping Timmy up in a tight hug. He sinks into her, nose against the curve of her nape. She smells like lavender and he breathes it in, calmed.

“Have you lost weight? Is that even fucking possible?” She pulls out of their hug half-way and looks at him, worried, fingers curling around the hem of his green sweater and lifting it up to examine his belly. Timmy slaps her hands away with a rickety laugh.

“I’m fine, _Mom._ ” He smooths his palms down to flatten his sweater back out. “Fuck,” he laughs, the sound reedy. Dakota smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” she teases before yanking him into the kitchen and ordering him to take a seat. Timmy slides carefully up onto the stool next to Matty, giving him another soft nod.

His gauzy blue button-up hangs off of his frame, exposing slices of various tattoos. They look more thought out than Armie’s, though when Timmy looks down he does see that Matty has DAD scrawled on the back of one wrist.

It’s funny, and Timmy thinks about asking him the significance, but then his brain swings violently towards thoughts of Armie, gone rogue at the notion of tattoos. He cuts off its pursuit with a hard cough, watching thin, precise fingers push back curls that make his own feel flat. Matty’s fingertips scrub the sides of his head, where it’s been buzzed into a floppy, beguiling mohawk. His eyes catch Timmy’s and he smiles.

Timmy flinches, a burning, pink blush creeping its way up his neck, over his cheeks. He tells himself to be cool, tries to will away a few measures of restlessness.

Dakota’s text implied that Armie wasn’t going to be home tonight but that doesn’t stop Timmy from looking in the direction of the door every other minute. He’s making himself dizzy with the anticipation of it, building up exactly what he would want to say if he did. Hidden within his need to explain himself is the simple self-destructive desire to see Armie again, knowing exactly what damage those blue eyes would bring.

“Alright, mate?”

Matty’s voice pulls him back to the surface and Timmy hums in question, head swiveling to meet his kind, pensive brown eyes. “Expecting someone?” His smile is knowing, but not judgemental. Timmy wonders what he’s heard about him, and Armie, if anyone here knows the details of their fight. He looks at Dakota for possible clues but she is indisposed tending to the pasta noodles.

“You seem nervous. Why you nervous?” Matty asks, hooking his attention again. Timmy shakes his head, chuckles awkwardly.

“No, no, no. I’m not--I’m cool. Sorry.”

Matty’s eyes linger carefully on his features for a moment, leaving Timmy’s skin prickling in their wake; he forces himself to hold their gaze. The same precise fingers from minutes ago wrap around the strap of his camera, still hanging from his neck. Matty tugs it a few times, the fabric pinching his nape, rubber clinging to the soft hairs there.

“So, are you going to show me what you can do with this thing or is it purely decorative?”

Timmy’s smile tips into a crooked, uneasy grin. “Oh I was just…”

“Come on then,” Matty leans, throwing a long arm over Timmy’s shoulder. “Let’s take a selfie. How fucking ironic is it to take a selfie with a film camera? It’ll be hilarious.”

Timmy slips the camera strap off his neck, struggles with it since Matty’s hand is firmly pressed into his muscle. He changes the settings, estimating the f-stop required, and holds it away at an awkward angle. He’s never done this before, not with his Pentax. It feels wrong but Matty’s laughter is vibrating against him and when Timmy glances sideways, he catches the sincere curl of Matty’s lips and for the first time in a while feels his own mouth turning upward with genuine amusement.

Matty’s good mood is contagious.

_Click._

-

Timmy isn’t sure how it happens but he starts spending bits of time with Matty after that.

They exchange numbers at Dakota’s and when Matty starts texting him on whim later in the night--memes, YouTube links, questions--it’s like a reprieve. From life. From reality. From Armie and Ansel and all of the friends still asking what went wrong.

Timmy throws himself into it, whatever this budding friendship with Matty is to become, because what has he got to lose? He’s afraid of entering into conversations with most of his current contact list, and to be frank, Matty is very easy on the eyes.

And it isn’t purely for Timmy’s benefit, their spending time together. He believes that Matty is likely interested in him because he’s one of the only people in Los Angeles that aren’t having to marry their ideas of a pre-treatment and post-treatment Matty. Like Matty does to him, he must also feel safe, in a way. No judgement, no failed expectations. Timmy is a clean slate in the form of intellectual debates, bad jokes, and smart anecdotes, all wrapped in, as Matty puts it, _”a sort of angelic stunner in a knitted jumper.”_

One night they’re texting philosophical ideas at one another until it becomes too much for Timmy’s thumbs and Matty calls to ask if he’d like to go for a coffee.

“A coffee,” Timmy parrots back into the phone, grinning. “We just say coffee here.”

Matty laughs. “Well la-dee-da. Let’s get coffee then,” he amends, botching an American accent.

The next morning, they do, at a trendy new spot with a floor made of pennies and high, white brick walls. Matty fits right in with the decor, effortlessly styled, wearing tight pants with holes at the knees and metal jewelry. They drink three coffees apiece and stay for hours, until their eyeballs are vibrating and they can’t sit still.

The day after that, Matty meets Timmy at work when his shift ends and they walk to a record store. And the next, have lunch in the Whole Foods shopping center, Matty strumming at the strap of Timmy’s headband, pulling out long, loose curls one by one until Timmy laughs and has to set it back right.

Even though Timmy still feels a little hesitant about Matty, they have an easy rapport. He never feels like he’s walking on eggshells, even when they disagree on a subject.

He wouldn’t label it a crush, but it does feel different to the rest of his friendships. Pregnant with possibility. Like a mysterious bud in a garden, Timmy will have to watch it and wait to find out what kind of flower blooms.

Their second Thursday since meeting, he and Matty are hanging out at Dakota’s, waiting for her to bathe so that they can all get something to eat before the printmaking lecture she’s roped them both into.

Matty is showing Timmy a demo his band recorded right before he left for rehab, the vocals on the track raw and strung tight in a way that makes Timmy emotional.

They are crowded together on one end of the couch, ears bent towards the phone when the knob for the front door jiggles, being unlocked from the other side, and Armie walks in.

He’s wearing a white shirt with a maroon tie that’s already been torn open and his expression goes from slack to locked down as soon as he realizes who’s in his house.

Timmy’s rehearsed how his next run-in was going to go in his mind for the past two weeks, but it is nothing like he’s planned for. Rationale cannot keep his heart from pinballing inside of his chest at the sight of Armie, an entire moon cycle of emotions waxing and waning through him.

He feels excited and hurt and angry and sad, but mostly caught out--even though he and Matty are just sitting there, not even touching. They haven’t even kissed and yet he still feels red-handed.

Only a little bit of that burns away when he remembers how Armie had treated him the last time they spoke, berating him out in the street.

“Mr. Hammer,” Matty calls jovially as Armie tries to slip by without incident. He jumps to his feet, stepping over Timmy’s knees, and they shake hands. “Looking fit in your work gear, man. How are you?”

They make small talk next to the hall for a minute, Timmy with his head down, mortified, pretending to be busy on his phone, and then Armie retires to Dakota’s room, not only closing the door but also turning the lock.

It takes him Timmy almost half an hour to shake the near-encounter.

The next weekend, Dakota tells Timmy that Armie’s found somewhere else to live and is moving out, so maybe he isn’t the only one so affected. The news hits him harder than he’d been expecting. His disappointment in Armie’s cowardice is no defense for losing him in yet another form.

Before they were still orbiting the same sun. Now, Armie feels a million miles away and he is left spinning through space alone.

-

Timmy trips and falls over the line into something more with Matty on a Monday night. It’s Timmy’s day off so they go thrifting then for pizza, and end up on the side of town where Matty is renting with his bandmate, George.

“My flat is just two blocks that way, if you want to come over,” Matty tells him. He doesn’t qualify the offer, just stares at Timmy in earnest with those sleepy, squinty eyes.

The night air is crisp, autumn quickly coming into view, but Matty’s suggestion makes him feel warm. It’s an easy decision that takes little thought and he nods; he’s never seen where Matty lives and it’s getting cold.

Fifteen minutes later they’re cradling mugs of tea in his lofty concrete apartment. They pick out something to watch, a new miniseries on HBO, and sink into a comfortable silence.

Timmy toes out of his shoes and pulls his feet up. Matty clocks the movement and silently eases a grey blanket down from the back of the couch, laying it out over his lap. Timmy unfolds it, sharing with Matty, telling him thanks.

A little while later, out of nowhere, Matty starts speaking over the film, still watching the tv. “Tell me if this is inappropriate--I know your love life is a bit of a mess--but I want to kiss you, Tim,” he says, turning his head then to look Timmy in the eyes. “Would you let me?”

Timmy pops out a startled laugh, thrown by Matty’s boldness. With Armie, Timmy was always having to dig five layers into every action to parse out a motive. Matty willingly puts it all on the line. Maybe it has something to do with surviving a heroin addiction, but more likely he’s just built that way.

“I—wait. What makes you so sure my love life is a mess?” Timmy feels his stomach twist. His adrenaline is sending red alerts all over; his mind and body tell him to kiss Matty but something in his chest is constricting, demanding that first he find out what Matty knows.

“Has Ar—anyone said anything?” Timmy fumbles, blushes pure heat. Matty reaches out and slides his fingers into the hair resting on the side of his neck.

“You’re quite interesting, do you know that?” Matty’s eyes flash down to his mouth but focus once their gazes meet. “I think you’ve spent a lot of time with people that have made you feel inadequate. Absolute morons, the lot of them.”

Timmy swallows and Matty smiles. There’s a moment of silence shared between them that makes Timmy certain that Matty must know about what happened with Armie, a heavily edited version of it anyway.

Staring at Matty now, drawn towards his full, flushed lips, the blip on his timeline that was Armie feels insignificant. Ansel is no longer even on his radar.

“What do you say, can I snog you now?”

Timmy nods, and then Matty’s opening the blanket so that he can move in closer, advancing slowly in case Timmy might get spooked. When his kiss finally lands it is simple and sweet, and he waits for Timmy to gather enough wits to start kissing back.

It’s good. Gentle but with a growing insistence, Matty putting his hands on Timmy when he’s decided that he isn’t going to bolt.

One of the things Timmy likes most about Matty’s skinny fingers on his face and his pillow of curls under his palm is that they don’t bear any resemblance to Armie. When he closes his eyes, their noses bumping, he can’t pretend that once they open again it will be Armie dazedly looking back at him. There is no room for disappointment, not that kissing Matty is less than.

Plainly, he just isn’t Armie--significant or not.

They kiss for a while, everything soft, languid. Timmy eases into Matty and they fall back on the couch and eventually even take their shirts off, though neither push for more than that.

“It’s alright, you know,” Matty breathes against Timmy’s chest, where his head is resting. Timmy shifts his chin downward, unable to see through the dense forest of curls that sit on Matty’s head, but imagines that he must be smiling by the melody of his voice.

“What’s alright?” Timmy asks with a sigh, closing his eyes, dragging fingers up Matty’s spine. They’ve just spent an hour kissing to no end and Timmy feels shaky. He needs something to plant him back on solid ground.

“If you think about him.” Matty says, and his voice is so gentle, like a caress. There’s no accusation, nothing concealing hurt, just compassion. Timmy doesn’t understand how he does this. Matty is always making statements like these, pulling the rug out from under Timmy’s feet, then being the one to catch him when he trips.

Timmy’s silence must encourage him to continue. Matty plants a kiss on the dip between his breastbone. “Armie. Even if you’re thinking about him now--it’s alright.”

Timmy’s hand makes the journey to the back of Matty’s neck, his fingers seeping into the thick curls there, knuckles bending around the strands. He tugs so that Matty’s head lifts and grins when he sees he was right; Matty is all smiles.

“Why are you so sure I’m thinking about him?” Timmy licks over his lips, hoping his voice isn't giving too much of himself away but that’s the beauty in what he has with Matty--no matter what Timmy gives him, Matty always knows how to break it down and take what he needs, and in return give him back exactly what he wants. Though, Timmy isn’t sure he always deserves it. Matty is too good for him, even on his best days.

He’s right too; Armie is always floating somewhere in the back of his mind, even when he thinks he’s done his best to rid himself of him.

Matty crawls up the short distance until he’s half-straddling Timmy, laying flat against his front, their ribs pressed together. His warm brown eyes search Timmy’s own until they drop down to his mouth, where he leans in, still smiling and whispers against the skin of his lips. “I like you as a person, Timmy,” he says. Matty’s voice is serious, low. Timmy recognizes the tone. “Kissing you is quite nice, as I’m sure other things are as well.”

Timmy doesn’t know how to reciprocate Matty’s sentiment, mostly because he doesn’t know exactly what it is he feels for Matty--but he can tell that Matty isn’t expecting a response. That’s part of what makes whatever this is so easy.

“We are nothing more or less than you want,” Matty says, sounding sleepy, and Timmy nods, smiling gently before leaning back in for another kiss.

-

Drive Like I Do is playing the final weekend of the city’s summer festival series. It takes place on Friday at a big park in downtown. There will be food trucks and vendors and shitloads of people soaking up the last vestiges of warm weather.

Timmy has seen it being increasingly advertised by his friends on Facebook and Instagram for the past few weeks. Dakota has texted more than once asking if he’d come. He’s declined with vague excuses, not knowing his schedule or already having plans. She doesn’t fight him on it too much, and he knows it’s because Armie is going to be there. Having his weak spot known is a little embarrassing, but he’s grateful that she knows not to push him.

With the show only a few days away, Timmy thinks he’s in the clear as far as going is concerned. Then Matty brings it up over a game of Mortal Kombat

“So DLID is playing that thing on Friday,” he fishes, slicing up Timmy’s character on-screen.

He doesn’t respond, busy mashing the buttons on his controller, nailing Raiden with a succession of uppercuts. It’s useless. Matty destroys him, a fatality cutscene playing out where Timmy’s Jade is split in half by a bolt of lightning.

Matty hollers and drops his controller, expression melting. “Come on. Please,” he whines, doing puppy-dog eyes. “I haven’t seen Dakota’s band in ages, and fuck if I can remember the last time Armie was on drums for it.”

Timmy’s face must reflect a flash of hurt at hearing that name because Matty grabs him by the shoulders and then the face. “We don’t have to hang out with him,” he promises.

The worried wrinkles in Matty’s brow make him feel a bit silly. It’s been almost a month since his knock-down drag-out fight with Armie.

Timmy chews his lip, “You really want to go?”

“We’ll be in and out,” Matty beams, working himself into a fervor. His smile is huge, wild. “I’m going to eat a bloody sushi burrito, whatever the fuck that is.”

Timmy laughs, endeared by Matty’s enthusiasm and vibrance over “ridiculous American cuisine” as he calls it, but Timmy’s apprehension is palpable. Matty comes back down after a second to duck forwards, pressing his lips against Timmy’s chin, nips his mouth in a peppery kiss before pulling back and vowing, “I’ve got you.”

-

They take a lyft to the park from Timmy’s apartment, Matty’s hand on his knee in the back of the car, trying to quell its jittering but to no avail.

The driver lets them out at the street corner farthest from the stage. They have to swim upstream through masses of people, a few who call out his name. But Timmy doesn’t look up and try to match the voices with faces. He slices through the crowd on the walkway with Matty at his side commenting on every pop-up booth.

“Kettlecorn. Yes, mate!” he whoops, yanking Timmy over by the arm. They get a large and Matty carries it under one arm, pushing palmfuls into Timmy’s mouth whenever he gets too surly-looking, only to kiss away some of the salty-sweet which makes Timmy flush and Matty ruffle his hair.

It’s still uncomfortably warm. The sun beats down, not yet hidden by the buildings and trees. Everything smells like asphalt and fried food. Timmy shouldn’t have worn a hoodie with nothing underneath. He grabs the material at the center of his chest to fan himself with it.

Matty’s buzzed sides are glistening with sweat, curls dampening where they hang over his forehead and against the back of his freckled neck. He’s wearing a black Willie Nelson shirt with the sleeves cut off, red converse, and pleated khakis. Unequivocally cool at all times.

They pass by the semi-circle of food trucks and he points out Sushi Burrito with a conspiratorial grin. “Later!” Matty kisses the tips of his fingers and brandishes them outwards towards the truck.

Timmy laughs. “It sounds fucking scary.”

By the time they make it to the stage, Matty has been pulled into several hugs, always stopping to chat but never so long that he could be construed as ignoring Timmy.

Not that Timmy would notice, his attention is on the crowds, scanning through for anyone walking taller than the rest. Fortunately, the universe grants him the small mercy of not placing Armie in his path before the show.

He and Matty find a place to stand near the stage, under a tree with a trunk wide enough for them both to lean against.

Dakota finds her way to the platform first, a coil of cords roped over one arm and a cymbal stand in each hand. Timmy calls out her name and she looks over, a smile splitting her face. Dev and Armie aren’t far behind, carrying the bigger components of Armie’s kit.

Timmy feels like all the air has been knocked out of him. Armie is wearing his signature show shorts, black scraps of fabric that catch mid-thigh, and a plain white t-shirt. In a pair of dark Ray Bans, Timmy can’t follow his line of sight, but he doesn’t seem to look their way, talking animatedly with Dakota and Dev and someone else on stage, maybe the sound guy for the event.

Timmy feels a squeeze on his hand. Matty is holding it, his face warm and open when the gesture draws Timmy’s gaze. He offers a settled smile of his own, but doubts it is successful. He knows Matty is offering assurance but all he can think about is the burn from the fingers around his own and whether or not Armie might be able to notice from this distance.

“Are you regretting not bringing your camera?” Matty asks, thumping his chest with the back of his hand.

Timmy shakes his head, pulls in a long, shaky breath. “Nah. Tonight I just want to watch.” Which is true. More than that though, he can’t deal with the intimacy of being behind a lens right now. He doesn’t want to see Armie that way again. As art.

Set up doesn’t take long. The city staff has timing for these all-day festivals down to a science by the end of the summer.

Dakota grips the mic to address the crowd and people pour into the stage area, half-way into their trays of banh mi fries and street tacos.

‘Everyone is so beautiful,” she observes from the platform, voice booming, her hand held like a visor to shade her eyes. “I always thought we had the sexiest fans, but I think this really confirms it.”

There is a communal laugh and Timmy smiles, his heart bursting for her.

Dakota introduces herself and the band, Dev chiming in once or twice, and then they roll into their first song.

The excitement of the crowd is palpable. It pulses a current of energy that Timmy is sure must radiate at least three blocks. He strains his eyes for as long as he can on Dakota but after a spin towards the left of the stage, the blur that is Armie is in his direct line of sight and he can’t look away.

Matty shouting at his side is a distant sound. All Timmy can hear is the pulse of his heart, being controlled by the kick drum that Armie is abusing in just the right way.

The second song starts and Timmy’s eyes might water from how hard he’s staring. The tempo is quicker, the melody catchy,; he nearly stumbles when he feels a hip push into his own.

“You’re a lovely wallflower, Timothée.” Matty dances in front of him, temporarily disconnecting him from Armie. Timmy inhales relief and bathes in Matty’s brown eyes, cleansed.

“You look so cool,” Timmy teases with an endeared tone while Matty rolls his hips, swaying his arms around Timmy's body. His mouth is happy but his eyes communicate that he knows what’s on Timmy’s mind.

“Fuck looking cool.” Matty swivels on his heel and starts jumping around, half spastic, half smooth, but completely adorable. He’s a thin frame of swinging limbs. An alluring smile and inviting eyes.

Timmy lifts his arms and participates for a song or two, but as the music slows, so does his enthusiasm.

He gives up and, during the last song, excuses himself to have a quick cigarette.

-

Timmy is smoking at the edge of the grass, near the parking lot once DLID finishes up and the crowd disperses. Matty’s gone to divide and conquer a sushi burrito, accompanied by some old friends. He’d asked Timmy to join but, honestly, he really needs a minute of quiet.

He’s thinking about getting a beer from the brewery tent people are milling around when his attention is pulled back to the parking lot.

Armie and Dev appear from behind the closing hatch of an SUV, They walk between two cars, back towards the park, and TImmy thinks about turning away, hiding himself in a group of teenagers discussing the merits of veganism, but deems it childish and holds his ground instead.

Timmy’s discovered presence affects Armie and Dev’s expressions at the exact same time, Dev’s mouth opening into a smile while Armie’s tightens into a line.

Timmy sucks in a lungful of cancer and wills himself steady. He looks right at them, no sense in pretending he doesn’t know they’re there.

Dev says something short to Armie that he can’t make out, shares a subtle look with him and then peels off, waving. Timmy waves back and Armie’s path shifts, veering towards him.

“Hey.”

“Good show,” Timmy says, marginally more settled now that the anticipation is over and he hasn’t crumbled yet. Plus, it was.

Armie shrugs. The tattoos on his arms shine with sweat. “Sure,” he says, ”What’d you get to eat?”

Timmy takes a beat to put out his cigarette. “Nothing yet. I was eyeing the pulled pork grilled cheese though. We’ll see.”

“Food trucks are an abomination,” Armie says, smirking, looking over Timmy’s head at the selection of them a ways back. Every single one has a ridiculous name and a ridiculous logo to match.

“You fucking _would_ say that.” Timmy’s breath hitches into a laugh, which spreads into a fragile smile when Armie joins in.

Something inside of him uncoils, relenting at the sound of Armie’s laughter. It’s proof that there are still remnants of camaraderie in the rubble of what they were becoming. He feels his shoulders relax and lets down his arms while they continue to stand there and talk.

The sun has set, bruising the sky purples and blues. Lights strung through the trees in the park blink on, setting everything in a warm glow. Timmy wonders briefly where Matty’s gone, but imagines he must be somewhere close on standby, giving him space.

Armie palms over his buzzed head and Timmy speaks freely. “You know, the other week, in the street. I kinda thought you were going to hit me for a minute.” There’s humor in his tone but his words hit Armie like a pillowcase full of soap.

He is instantly declawed. Eyebrows knitting together. Posture going soft. “Timmy…” he starts, voice dragged low by sincerity. He takes an aborted half-step forward. “Fuck, I would _never_ hurt you---”

“I know,” Timmy says, nodding, clearing the air with his hand, not needing this to spiral. “It was just intense.”

Armie’s stare is too heavy, maybe with things he wants to say. He looks like he’s putting them into order of importance and Timmy’s stomach clenches into a fist.

His head whips to the side, searching for Matty. Where’s his white knight? “Next band is starting up in a minute,” he fumbles, heart jamming itself into his throat. “I’m gonna--”

“Yeah,” Armie sighs, backing away. His jaw flexes and he rolls his lips, sealing himself back into stoicism. “Bye, Timmy.”

As soon as Armie is gone, Matty finds him, makes sure that he’s is alright and leads him away to find something of substance to eat.

-

Timmy is almost always at Dakota’s now, just like he was before Armie moved in. The vibe of the house is different, quieter, even though there’s absolutely no reminders that Armie once lived there. He was only ever a suitcase and a few piles of clothes in her room--that’s it.

Timmy doesn’t have many reminders of him either.

He is resting his head against Dakota’s lap, where she’s alternating between petting his hair and holding a joint to his lips. Timmy has taken to getting high at her place, or at home alone, since Matty came into his life. His usual need for round the clock intoxication subdued, though not without longing.

The high is mellow after an hour of Chopped on the Food Network and Dakota is now busy texting aggressively above him. Timmy nuzzles into her belly and she huffs with annoyance, though it’s obviously not directed at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, sitting up to give her space. She chews her thumb in contemplation and watches Timmy carefully; he feels like he’s asked a forbidden question but whatever it is her phone buzzes again and she fills him in.

“Chris is being a dick and I hate arguing through text. We had dinner plans but I forgot I was supposed to swing by Armie’s to drop off some shit he left behind and —”

“I’ll do it,” Timmy offers far too quickly, his mouth having signed him up before the logical part of his brain had time to review or edit. Dakota shakes her head.

“Armie can wait. He’s out in West Hollywood now.” She sighs, exasperated. “Too fucking far.”

Timmy gives her his best smile. “I take the 101 home. It’s cool, D.” He leans in and pushes the top of his head into her shoulder, throwing his arms around her in a sloppy hug. “Let me do this for you.”

“God, fine. You’re lucky you’re so fucking cute.”

Timmy beams and follows her to load up whatever Armie deemed unworthy to take with when he initially moved out.

He doesn’t allow himself to analyze what the fuck he’s doing until he’s on his way over.

-

Timmy spends the entire car ride talking himself up. He hasn’t seen Armie since the DLID show but he works through their conversation and concludes that Armie shouldn’t be too pissed to see him. Their talk then proved that there might be something salvageable between them yet, enough for civility, at least. And this is really just a favor. Timmy is simply helping out a friend.

His adrenaline goes from a constant hum to skyrocketing as he carries the heavy box towards a cement staircase for apartment 23B: Armie’s, supposedly.

Timmy second guesses every decision he’s made in his life up until this moment once he can make out the chipped brass of the apartment number. This is fucking stupid. _He’s_ fucking stupid.

Armie doesn’t want anything to do with him. And why does he even want to be here? After the way Armie treated him, and the way Matty treats him now.

He settles on a plan to throw the box down on the mat and then take off but as he waddles up the final step, the door opens and the screen pushes wide.

A tall, soft-looking bearded guy walks out, wearing a shirt with some creepy Japanese horror print on it. Timmy halts and looks around like he’s lost. This, is not Armie.

“Oh. Uh—sorry,” Timmy’s head swivels on his shoulders before circling back. His face goes beet-red because the guy is attractive, watching him with intense blue eyes and a curiously crooked smile while Timmy loiters in front of his door like a weirdo. “I think I have the wrong apartment.”

The man eyes the box, looking over his own shoulder at the apartment number before turning back to Timmy with cocked eyebrows.

“Who ya looking for?”

Fuck, of course he’s Irish. He looks Irish, if that’s even a thing. He’s hot, red-lipped and pink-cheeked with white bunny teeth. Timmy knows he’s a mess in front of anyone remotely attractive, something his mom promised him he’d grow out of but if anything has taken the opposite route on.

Timmy shrugs, grunting as he readjusts the box in his arms, hoisting a leg to assist.

“Armie?”

Irish guy looks like he’s just been let in on a juicy secret. “Holy hell, you’re Armie’s fella!”

Timmy doesn’t get a chance to deny or even analyze what that could mean.

“Is that your rock collection?”

He is laughing at a joke that Timmy is obviously not in on. His eyes go wide, confused. “What?”

“Armie’s here. Come in,” he  says, slaps him on the shoulder and ushers him in through the door. Timmy sets the box down with a sigh and massages his biceps.

The man offers out an arm. “I’m Jack,” he grins and Timmy’s mind plugs in a few memories of Armie mentioning a wild co-worker with the same name.

“Jack, right. Yeah, I’m Timmy.”

“I’ll go wake the beast. Hang on.” He disappears from the room and Timmy takes a look around.

The apartment looks well-lived in, the front room stocked with racks and racks of blu-rays, framed film posters lining the walls. There is a leather couch with a glass coffee table in the center of the room, and a huge television. Nothing pings as belonging to Armie. Like when he was staying at Dakota’s, he didn’t feel the need to personalize his surroundings.

Armie appears out of hallway with Jack a minute later, Jack excitedly buzzing next to him, unbothered by Armie swatting him back.

Once they’re both in view, Jack doesn’t linger, walks quickly to the front door and eases it shut behind him, but not before he flourishes with a tip of an imaginary hat, “Good to meet you, Tim.”

“Yeah, same. Bye,” Timmy says, still reeling from the discovery that Armie is living with someone as good looking as Jack, and because, regardless of how their relationship has frayed, Armie alone and unguarded is still a sight for sore eyes.

He looks a little bit sleepy and so good, in his usual black, but without the boots, socked feet padding closer. His hair is shorn and there is a only a day or two of stubble on his cheeks. Timmy can’t imagine that he was ever in the fetal position surrounded by a halo of empty take out boxes; he wouldn’t cope that way.

The only inclination as to how Armie’s been spending his days--aside from a regular hygiene regimen apparently--is a red-purple mark under his ear that comes into focus once he’s stopped, about five feet away.

It makes Timmy a hypocrite, but seeing evidence that Armie has moved on still stings. He doesn’t want to picture how he got that hickey, or who gave it to him.

“Your roommate is…” Timmy starts, at a loss, wetting his lips.

Armie cracks the white sliver of a smile. “Yeah, that’s Jack.”

He has more questions, but realizes that his curiosity is likely unwanted and gestures instead to the box on his left. “I offered to bring this by for Dakota. She couldn’t cancel on some plans with Chris. I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Armie says, arms folding themselves over his chest, defensive but not aggressively so. “Thanks.”

“Do you want help putting it in your room?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, and he doesn’t mean anything by it, but Armie declines.

“Nah, I’ve got it.”

Timmy laughs awkwardly. Of course he does. Even though Timmy almost asked for Jack’s help, Armie could probably move it into his room with one arm and Timmy stuffed inside. “Cool. So what’s in there? Carrying it up the stairs, it felt like bricks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Armie says, smiling again, a little wider maybe. “It’s bricks. I’m building a fire pit in the bathroom. Want to see?”

Timmy rubs at the back of his neck, affronted by a bloom of fondness. “You’re dumb.”

Armie doesn’t say anything, looking away from Timmy’s face, out the long, skinny window next to the door.

An awkwardness rolls into the room then that Timmy has never felt between them before. It is thick and heavy, sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth, making the floor feel tilted. He doesn’t like it.

From their very first meeting there has always been an unstoppable back and forth between he and Armie, verbal or otherwise. A tennis match that never ends. Now they’ve lost the ball.

His palm itches to wrap itself around the door knob and retreat, but his conscience has other plans.

A confession forms in his mouth before his mind, pooling on his tongue. Once it’s there he has little control in whether or not it spills out, realizes that he’s been weighed down by it since the first flirtation in Dakota’s kitchen.

The vibe in the room has changed before he speaks, Timmy squirming in his shoes, toes curling against the rubber soles. “I’ve been seeing Matty,” he says and Armie nods, looking away, his jaw tight.

“Yeah.”

“I like him,” Timmy breathes out, and then stops breathing altogether because Armie’s gaze slides back up to his, clear and blue. If his eyes were the ocean Timmy would be able to see every shipwreck from the sky.

His mouth opens to say something else that might temper the news but then Armie is shaking his head. “It’s fine,” he says, heartfelt and soft. “Matty’s probably the best of us, even when he was fucked on drugs.”

There isn’t any fight in him, and Timmy wonders if he did that, feels sick about the likelihood.

His stomach churns and he motions hopelessly to the box at his feet. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time, just wanted to drop this off for D. I should go.”

Armie is just looking at Timmy, watching the way his arm flops, every part of him visibly troubled. His face is all warm tones in the light of late afternoon, the blinds open, shadows stretching over the floor. “Probably,” he says, and it kills Timmy, how agreeable he’s being.

His next confession breaks free without inspection. The floodgates are open. “I don’t want to though,” he says, his belly a labyrinth of jammed gears.

Only after he’s said so does he realize how much truth there is to his words. His past three run-ins with Armie have ended without any closure, neither of them saying anything that matters.

Armie’s face does something complicated. “Timmy…”

The sound of his voice makes Timmy feel like crying. His eyes even start stinging, but he presses them closed to snuff out the urge. That’s the last thing Armie wants from him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, biting into his lip to hold back a sudden onslaught of sadness and regret that crests over him like a great wave.

Armie is witness to it soaking him, tears spilling over and rushing down his face. He comes closer, drawn forward, and, heaving a breath, Timmy swells to meet him.

On contact they dissolve into a kiss.

All lips; no teeth, no tongue.

Armie’s hand closes around the back of Timmy’s neck, bringing him in, and Timmy’s hands melt into his chest.

The rest of the world ceases to be.

His feet walk backwards until Armie is pressing him into the front door, Timmy climbing onto his toes then to wrap both arms around Armie’s neck and deepen the kiss. The hot slide of Armie’s tongue into his mouth makes Timmy groan, fingers scrabbling at the back of his head, needing something to grip onto lest this current sweeps him away.

He has been living with the assumption that he wasn’t going to be allowed this again, everything good about him and Armie already in his rearview. Timmy’s knees go weak, his entire body singing with relief.

They kiss and kiss and eventually separate, faces an inch apart. Armie blinks and Timmy can almost feel the breeze from his eyelashes. “I think you should leave,” he sighs, thumb rubbing a circle into the soft skin behind Timmy’s jaw.

Timmy nods, counting the silver shards in Armie’s eyes. Then he kisses him again. “Show me your room?”

Armie’s shock is a flash in the pan, emotion put away quickly, like always. He searches Timmy’s eyes, looking for something. Whatever he finds drowning in their depths has him straightening away from Timmy and turning around. He starts walking towards the hallway, shoulders swelling with a lungful of air. “I’m on the right.”

Timmy chases his breath for a second, adjusting his sweatshirt before following Armie into his room.

It is minimal. Blank walls. A full-size mattress on the floor covered with a grey fitted sheet, and a cityscape of cardboard boxes, only a few of them open to reveal any of their secrets.

“Cozy,” Timmy remarks, half-stunned, and Armie barks a laugh. He shuts the door to his room once Timmy is fully inside and locks it. There’s a finality in the gesture that makes Timmy feel faint.

He sways on his feet, the surreality of their situation thinning out the oxygen in the room. He swallows mouthfuls of air and comes back to himself.

The heat from a moment earlier dissipates, allowing him some clarity to think. A million red flags wave for Timmy’s attention.

He cuts them down, sober, but no less hungry.

“Have you been thinking about me?” Timmy asks, knowing the answer, or maybe not. Like everything with Armie, the silence is filled with uncertainty.

Armie wipes at his mouth with the side of his hand and his eyes narrow, gaze discerning but still pliant. Timmy remembers those same eyes, once, back when he’d woken to Armie kissing his shoulder. Timmy had been half-asleep and part of him believed that maybe Armie’s soft eyes were just a dream--seeing them now confirmed they were real. Not that it mattered, anymore.

“Matty’s good for you,” Armie says, and Timmy reads between the lines, understanding what he really means: _I’m not._

He wants to argue, but then Armie eats up the space between them and drags a thumb over his bottom lip. Every movement feels like deja vu, a past life, but Timmy accepts that just because history is repeating itself now, things couldn’t be different. There is an unspoken agreement between them: whatever is happening won’t happen again.

“Kiss me,” Timmy inhales, sealing their fates. His eyes fall closed and Armie rushes to oblige him, only stopping with a petal of space between their mouths. His breath is warm.

Timmy opens his eyes. “Wha--”

The look on Armie’s face shuts him up. He’s _scared_.

Timmy feels his heart trip out of rhythm, palpitating with concern though he doesn’t have the courage to ask what it is he’s so afraid of.

Armie spares him, voice gruff with warning. “If I kiss you now, I’m not going to want to stop.”

A chunk of Timmy’s tired heart crumbles off, lost through the bottom of his ribcage, and he leans forward, wrapping himself around Armie every way he can. Their mouths crash together painfully but neither of them flinch, two stars collapsing into a massive black hole.

It would be alright with him if it didn’t ever stop.

“Armie, _please_ ,” Timmy whines, panting. Armie’s big hands are all over him, pulling his sweater off, cupping his ass, gripping his thighs while Timmy hoists himself up in a heady attempt to climb him.

He wants _all_ of Armie, especially if now is the only time he’ll ever have him like this.

Timmy is unrelenting. In the past, he imagines that Armie might have tried to placate him, slow him down. They’d take their time, but he must also feel the pressure of their closing lifespan.

The _them_ that never quite was.

And this is the end of them, isn’t it? Armie’s mouth certainty tastes like goodbye.

“Turn around,” Armie mumbles then drops to his knees, biting his way down Timmy’s spine once he’s spun him away. It sends shock waves rumbling through every nerve, Timmy’s skin prickles with an electricity he’s never felt before. More than he can bear, and then just enough, singing him for future use.

Armie stops at his lower back, resting a rough cheek against his skin. Then he’s yanking Timmy’s joggers down along with his underwear until they're bunched around his thighs. The violent jerk of fabric makes Timmy stumble forward, onto all fours, palms pressing flat on the mattress. His bare ass is exposed against Armie’s chest as he leans over him, his lips re-fitting themselves to a vertebrae in the dip of his spine.

“Fuck, Timmy. Is there any part of you that isn’t pretty?”

He sounds annoyed, his breath tickling its way down over Timmy’s ass as he pulls back to take in the view. Timmy’s face goes hot, knowing what Armie must be seeing, his thighs shaking as he clenches his stomach in embarrassment. He _wants_ Armie to look at him, can barely stomach the thought of his attention being anywhere else, but also feels like he’s about to be consumed. Armie’s eyes will digest every detail.

Once he’s had his fill of looking, Armie splays his hands out over Timmy’s ass, fingers gently molding his muscles, spreading him open. He makes a low sound, guttural, and blows a cruel column of cold air, chuckling when Timmy puckers. Then, before Timmy can take another breath, Armie licks a long, wet stripe between his cheeks. His tongue rolls, flat, and then plunges inside.

Timmy gasps, his hips jumping forward as his body lurches, flat against the mattress from the shock and sensation.

“God, Armie, yeah. More,” he cries, his fists now full of whatever is available to grab. A pillow. A spare bundle of t-shirt.

Timmy ruts against the sheets, hopeless for friction. He remembers the last time he fucked a mattress and how Armie’s tongue had guided him then too -- now he was making good on those promises. Why has it taken so long to get here?

Armie licks him out expertly, kneading his thighs, petting over Timmy’s hole with his tongue. Timmy burns at the idea of someone else having this, being undone by Armie Hammer in the same way.

“I’m going to fuck you, Timmy,” Armie says definitively then, his voice dragged low. His hot breath disappears and Timmy wishes he could see his face. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His touch is back immediately, a finger circling the rim of Timmy’s hole, the tip pressing gently against his slicked muscle.

Timmy turns his head, cheek pressed into the pillow, creased by the cover. He can’t catch his breath, so far gone, free-falling now that he’s realizing that Armie is ready to cave and give him whatever he wants.

“Why?” he asks, when what he means is _yes, please._

Armie’s eyes are a blazing, unreadable blue and his mouth is red and puffy. He doesn’t answer, just ducks in to sink a wide bite into Timmy’s right butt cheek, tensing his jaw until Timmy whimpers and he lets go. “Yes or no?”

Timmy’s trapped cock has a heartbeat, flushed and swollen. He grinds against the mattress and nods his head. “Yes,” he sighs, feverish. “Fuck, please.”

He wants to be fucked. He wants to suck Armie off. There are so many things, but if this is what he can have, then this is what he’ll take. Desire ignites under his skin, burns white-hot.

Armie sucks his index finger into his mouth, coating it with saliva before tracing Timmy’s hole again. Timmy squeezes his eyes closed and loses himself to pleasure. He’s had so many dreams about Armie, just like this, but opening his eyes and accepting the reality feels risky. It may all be a mirage, could turn into smoke if he looks too closely.

Armie’s finger breeches the first ring of muscle. The burn from the stretch is welcomed, jolting him into overdrive. Timmy tries to keep his hips steady but as Armie spits between his cheeks, the sound crude and filthy, and starts to push a second finger inside, Timmy moans and fucks forward into the messy sheets of Armie’s bed.

“Look at you,” Armie mutters from what sounds like a far off plane of existence. Timmy thinks he might be talking to himself until he hears, “You’re gonna take me so well.”

Timmy throws his ass back onto Armie’s fingers, feeling drunk, like he’s floating, unbothered by the consequences of tomorrow. Armie’s praise is worth it.

Armie kisses down his flank, slowly pulling out his fingers. He nips at the crease between Timmy’s cheek and thigh and then stands up. Timmy hates the loss, going slack like a ragdoll except for his hips that writhe uselessly in an effort to ease the dense pressure in his dick.

Somewhere behind him, Armie is digging through boxes, cursing under his breath, shuffling in the closet. He’s looking for something. Timmy doesn’t even have the wherewithal to ask what he’s doing. Eventually he hears a zipper and hazily turns his head, slowly rolling over.

A small bottle of lube and a foil condom are tossed onto the mattress. They land next to Timmy’s leg with a soft thump and then Armie is stepping back over to him. He starts to peel out of his clothes. Socks, shirt, pants, and finally his underwear. Timmy watches every departure, following the fabrics’ descent as it puddles on the floor, wishing to be in a universe where they’d be allowed the time for him to slowly unwrap Armie himself.

Timmy swallows, sucking in a breath when all six feet, five inches of Armie’s naked body are available to him. There are tattoos Timmy must have seen before but can’t remember patched all over Armie’s tan skin, on his thigh, his chest, rolling across the side of his hip. And this is to say nothing of his cock, huge and heavy against his thigh, an anatomical illustration in real life. Truly fucking beautiful.

Timmy's mouth is watering. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re unreal.”

It feels downright cruel that he’s going to have to live another day in this world without having covered every gorgeous inch of Armie’s cock in his saliva, but there isn’t time.

“Your turn,” Armie demands, surveying him from his vantage point, still standing. Timmy scrambles, sitting up to pull off his shoes and socks, his pants sailing across the room with his underwear still inside. Armie makes no move to help him, only lowering himself back onto the mattress once he’s completely nude. He crowds over Timmy and kneels between his legs, lathers three fingers and works him all the way open like that.

They’re both sweating, the sun sinking out of sight but the air still warm. Timmy multitasks, crests forward to pull at Armie’s lip with his teeth while bleeding out moans. Armie is generous with his praise, whispering it when he turns his wrist and Timmy whimpers, head falling back between his shoulders.

It’s like neither of them have ever fucked before, the way they’re acting. And Timmy realizes now that maybe everything, everyone, before today was only practice.

When he’s more than ready, Armie rips the condom wrapper open with his teeth and rolls the rubber on. Timmy muses about another circumstance where they could have been doing this for the first time without the need for one. He wants to ask if it’s necessary but the churn of jealousy and bile that conjures in his gut isn’t worth it; Armie wears a hickey from another person’s mouth and his own lips are raw from kissing Matty. What’s happening here is by no means the stuff of a fairy tale romance.

Armie settles over Timmy, spreading his thighs wider with his knees before he lines himself up. Timmy is momentarily dazed, overwhelmed by the visual of Armie looming, fat cock in hand, the head already between them, only a breath away from everything Timmy’s wanted these past two months. But before he can press inside, something stops him. He sits up, roughly pushing Armie back by the shoulders.

Timmy urges Armie onto his back and he goes, but grunts when he lands, looking up with deep, dark eyes. “What the fuck?”

Timmy climbs over him, pushes his knees out over the sharp angles of Armie’s pelvis so that he can pin him in a straddle. He’s breathless and panting above Armie, giddy that these are his hands on Armie’s chest and his legs squeezing Armie’s hips. He smirks, with shining lips, wetting them with another layer of saliva. “ _I_ get to make _you_ come this time.”

His mission statement makes Armie’s abdomen tighten up under Timmy. He looks wrecked, punching out air, both hands smoothing up onto Timmy’s thighs. The feeling is mutual.

With a grip around Armie’s latex-wrapped cock, Timmy shuffles down until he feels the tip of the condom against his skin. He holds his breath until they’re aligned, exhaling slowly as nudges back and then carefully eases down.

“Timmy, _oh fuck_ , yes,” Armie’s head falls back against the pillow but their eyes remain locked in. Timmy sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, his inner thighs shaking as he tries to keep his descent steady. It’s tempting to just drop down and swallow Armie whole, but he wants this to last. The stretch is unbelievable, better than even his most indulgent fantasies. Timmy is already hating that he won’t have it again.

When he bottoms out, he sits still for a few seconds, allowing the fullness of Armie’s twitching cock inside to stabilize him. Armie runs both palms up Timmy's thighs until his fingers close around his hips, encouraging him to get him moving when he’s ready. He’s breathing heavily, still peering up at Timmy through his lashes, mouth open in awe.

Timmy experimentally rolls his body, hands anchored to Armie’s shoulders for balance, and Armie hisses, grip flexing tighter. It’s slow, but he finds an easy rhythm of back and forth, Armie moving with him, occasionally pushing up when Timmy starts to bring himself up and down.

It’s everything. He feels unmade by the tide of sensation, stripped down to his atoms, only Armie’s hands on his waist and his eyes on his skin holding Timmy’s body together.

He’s being studied while they roll together, dark blue seeping into his cells, changing their makeup. Timmy likes whatever Armie creates anew.

The apartment is silent, and with the window closed, the temperature rises, every hard won breath of air out of their lungs adding to the humidity.

Timmy feels a trickle of sweat bead down his spine, Armie spreading perspiration over his back when he pulls him down, locks both arms around his waist so that Timmy can do nothing except moan, reduced to a mewling mess while Armie steals the lead and fucks up into him with his feet flat on the floor.

He buries his face in the damp crook of Timmy’s neck, leaving auto-kisses there every time Timmy falls against him.

The sound of skin slapping is almost shameful, but Timmy knows that nothing about this moment will ever register as anything other than worthwhile, no matter the cost

“Goddamn, Timmy. You’re so—” Armie cuts out. His voice sounds as wrecked as he looks and Timmy recognizes hesitation, as if there’s more he wants to say. “Your ass is tight, feels good.”

Timmy’s hips stutter as he pulls back to look at Armie, whose cheeks are flushed pink with exertion. He feels powerful in knowing that he’s the cause. He made Armie look _like that._

With a rush of confidence, Timmy sits back up. His heels dig into the outsides of Armie’s legs as he bears down, filling himself completely, grinding in a smooth, maddening rotation. The move elicits a sound from Armie that Timmy won’t soon forget and a new, more urgent rhythm builds.

His own cock pulses as a reminder against his belly and he wraps a hand around it, starts to jerk off, his legs taught and trembling as he lifts himself up and down to bounce on top of Armie.

Armie traces him with his hands, the pair of them slippery with sweat. He says Timmy’s name over and over, expression lovesick and hazy.

It’s more than Timmy can process. He tips forward and comes, whimpering as ribbons of warmth coat his knuckles and Armie’s stomach, matting in his happy trail and pooling into the dips of his ribs and hips.

In a blur, Armie flips Timmy over onto his back and hikes a leg up over his shoulder, slamming into his pliant, lithe body until he’s filling the condom, forehead pressed to Timmy’s clavicle. Timmy can feel the pulse of Armie’s orgasm even with the barrier but the sensation is long forgotten when he feels Armie’s lips close in on his.

They kiss, indescribably soft, for a minute or two, Armie combing Timmy’s sticky curls away from his face and brushing the edge of his jaw with his thumb.

The only sound Timmy makes is a hushed whine of deprivation when Armie pulls out.

He watches as Armie pulls the condom off, wincing out of instinct, the familiar sensitivity of it. He ties it off and stuffs it into an empty can of Red Bull by the wall.

Everything is too quiet. The sun is gone. Armie is a silhouette of purple-grey. He wipes his hands and stomach on a green flannel before throwing it Timmy’s way.

An ache already settling just beneath his ribs, Timmy cleans himself off, curling up after to sit and then stand so he can hunt down his clothes. He puts on his underwear and sweats in one go, feeling uncomfortably exposed, tugging the pull string tightly so that they cling aggressively his hips.

“We can’t do this again,” He whispers just as Armie offers him a cigarette, already re-dressed in his black jeans and shirt. Timmy shakes his head.

Armie huffs out a bitter-sounding laugh. “I know.” He retracts his arm and pops the cigarette between his lips, walks over to the window and drags it open, the blinds knocking around with the breeze that sweeps through.

There’s silence; melancholic, bittersweet. Timmy can taste the sweat and sex they just had in the air between them. Armie exhales smoke out the window, looking back over at Timmy hovering by the door.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Matty,” he offers with a self-deprecating smirk, but Timmy shakes his head.

“I wasn’t worried, I didn’t think...” He curses under his breath, doesn’t want Armie to think that’s what this is—what _he_ is. First with Ansel, now Matty.

Armie isn’t an inbetween.

Timmy wants to tell Armie that if there was a race to win for his affection, he’d have no fucking competition.

But Armie doesn’t want to win. He doesn’t even want to compete.

“It doesn’t matter,” Timmy sighs. He pulls his sweater on, grabs his socks and stuffs them into his shoes, holds them in his arms. He sways awkwardly while Armie continues to smoke.

“Well, thanks,” Armie says, ashing into a ceramic dish. He’s watching something outside, his posture turned back to stone.

Timmy doesn’t know if he’s talking about the sex or the box he dropped off for Dakota but he feels like he’s lost the privilige to ask any more questions.

He just looks at Armie helplessly one last time before quietly letting himself out.

-

Timmy drives home without any music on. He rolls down the windows, takes the freeway so that the noise and wind can drown out his thoughts.

He parks a block away from his apartment and sits there for half an hour in the dark, picking at a frayed seam on his steering wheel cover. Eventually his phone is in hand and he dials for Matty.

Matty picks up after only one or two rings and his voice feels like a breath of fresh air.

“Timothée Chalamet,” He sings upon answering, his pronunciation impeccable every time.

“Hey, Matty,” Timmy exhales all at once. There is nothing hidden in his voice. Matty’s buoyant mood centers him, his murky thoughts already clearing away.

“What’s goin’ on, babe?”

Timmy can hear the concern in his inflection but there’s no pressure behind it. Matty never presses him, always knows when to back off. Timmy leans into it now though, his affection like a warm embrace.

“I slept with Armie.” It’s not a confession, it’s confidence, but he does feel lighter once he’s said it (even though he’ll be spending the rest of the night mulling over what he’s done and what it means.)

Matty’s soft hum is thoughtful, faint and smooth. Timmy pours out a few pints of distress. “I didn’t--I didn’t know it was going to happen, but. I wanted it to.”

“Are you doing alright?” Matty asks sweetly. Timmy can imagine his slanted eyebrows, lips pressed with sincerity. He doesn’t deserve him. “Are you at your flat? I can stop by, if you need me.”

“No, no. I’m okay. I just,” Timmy inhales a short breath. “Are you mad?” he asks, more out of integrity than necessity. Timmy knows, deep down, that Matty wouldn’t judge him. Not for this. Not for Armie, his achille’s heel.

“Of course I’m not mad. _You’re_ mad for thinking that. Absolutely bonkers.”

Timmy laughs and hears Matty smile through the phone. They breathe in comfortable silence for a moment, and then the topic organically shifts.

Matty starts talking about a documentary he’d been watching earlier with George, about a man who makes sushi in a train station for $300 per piece.

“He might be the most enlightened man that ever lived,” Matty is gawking into the phone, “He’s got it all figured out. Has spent the last 80 years getting as good as is humanly possible at his chosen craft. Not mincing about. I need to get my life sorted, like Jiro. What a legend.”

Jiro sounds smart. So does Matty.

Timmy smiles. It’s weighed down by that unnamable ache, but he is happy to have called. “Me too,” he says, “I’m going to clean my place right now actually, you’ve inspired me.”

“Finally going to dismantle your monument to American take away, are you? Brilliant.”

Timmy brings Matty with him on the walk up to his apartment, chats with him once he’s gotten the door open and steps inside, only hangs up when Matty is ready to. He owes him that.

They say goodbye and Timmy sets his phone aside so that he can strip out of his clothes and mash them into a hamper to get a load of laundry started.

He doesn’t trust himself not to keep a reminder of Armie around, wants to wash everything that spent time on his bedroom floor as soon as possible.

And the rest of his dirty clothes too.

 

**-**

_**and i tossed and turned in my bed** _

_**its just like i lost my head** _

_**and if i believe you** _

_**will that make it stop?** _

_**if i told you i need you** _

_**is that what you want?** _


	8. somebody else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! we love you. as always, we are full of so much gratitude for everything you guys leave us. writing this is as challenging as it is enjoyable, so hearing back from you keeps us moving.  
> here's a big update -- enjoy it!  
> oyb is going on vacation so there will be a two week-ish hiatus.  
> thanks!  
> \- oyb & cpx
> 
> ps. fictional etc

 

Armie spends the hour after Timmy leaves smoking through half a pack of Marlboros Reds, lighting up stick after stick, hoping the nicotine buzz and smoke will keep images of Timmy bouncing on his cock at bay.

He’s shell-shocked by what happened, went from sleeping to talking to kissing to fucking to losing Timmy all over again in a fucking heartbeat. There wasn’t time to file anything away in its proper place, the entire encounter an anarchic mess of feeling. It was claustrophobic, being inside his own head right now. There’s no emergency exit, either.

Armie’s t-shirt smells like Timmy, his entire body probably. He can feel the itch of leftover come dried in his belly hair, and he’s sure that if somebody were to hold a black light up to him right now he would glow in the dark.

Rationale has a tiny voice in his head. It tells him to shower and change, but the ghosts of Timmy’s hands and his mouth and his ‘ _we can’t do this again_ ’ are too loud. They rattle through Armie, haunting him.

He starts on another cigarette.

Sleeping with Timmy wasn’t supposed to happen. Armie had long since swallowed the pill that this _thing_ between them was over, swallowed and re-swallowed actually. Soon he was going to need his stomach pumped for how many times they’ve closed the door on something that never really was. Extract the poison from his body that is _Timothée Chalamet._

They were never going to make it. That was obvious from the start.

Their first barrier was timing.

It was Timmy having a boyfriend and Armie just getting back into town, barely even re-potted in LA soil before Timmy barreled into his life and uprooted him. But once they cleared that hurdle, Timmy single and Armie still slipping further and further toward real feelings, he’d very quickly gotten into his own way.

It was too much, too fast, and Dakota being his voice of reason for more than a decade was the only encouragement Armie needed to detonate any headway he and Timmy were making.

Their fight in the street was an embarrassment.

Even though they’d felt alone out in front of Dakota’s house, it seemed that everyone knew. She tiptoed around asking about it for the next week, letting Armie’s grating mood slide, holding her tone when he stepped out of line. But eventually she’d outmaneuvered his avoidance and pinned down the truth.

He was a real piece of shit about it too, had snarled that she’d be better off _‘minding her own fucking business’_ when she put on her sad eyes and asked what had happened, but Dakota gave it right back when he’d stupidly followed up the dismissal with a question about how Matty and Timmy knew each other. Hearing that she didn’t know but that she _hoped they’d get together_ , that Timmy was _lost and needing something good in his life_ was only confirmation of what Armie’d been telling himself all along.

That was when he decided Dakota’s place was becoming over-crowded. Enemy territory. He needed space, and distance. And a real fucking bed in a room that hadn’t bore witness to Timmy smooth, soft sleeping body curled against him.

Armie laughs out a bitter cloud of smoke at how quickly those resolutions have crumbled.

_Show me your room?_

What a weak bastard he’s turned out to be.

He’s marinating in self-hatred when the front door pops open, and Armie is speared by a sudden bolt of fear, terrorized by the notion that it could be Timmy, back again.

His chest seizes, head snapping towards the sound, not that he can see the door from his spot on the patio.

Common sense smothers the irrational worry and Jack pulls open the screen door a minute or two later, Armie still sitting at the small plastic table in the dark, cigarette hanging from the seam of his mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour!” Jack announces, boisterous, dragging the spare chair away from the table’s edge, legs scraping over the cement floor. He drops down in it, arm extended to clap Armie on the shoulder, congratulatory. “That Timmy bloke is a right little dinger.”

“I don’t speak leprechaun,” Armie sighs, holstering his cigarette in the V of his fingers.

“Handsome,” Jack says very slowly, making sure that Armie can see the way he mouths the word.

Armie flicks ash at him. He’s well aware. “Sure.”

“So come on, don’t be a prude.” Jack reaches over and slips a cigarette from the open box, lights up in a swift inhale. He’s smiling from ear to ear and Armie can’t stomach his delight. “Tell me what you and your pretty fella got up to. I saw he brought over his rock collection for you,” Jack cackles with a wink, reaches over to slap Armie on the top of his thigh.

Armie is brimming with melancholy, so much so that he has reserves to feel bad about raining on Jack’s parade. Unfortunately, there’s no sense in regaling him with all the gory details of what happened between them. It was just depressing when put in context.

He was an itch that Timmy needed scratched, that’s all.

“We hooked up,” Armie settles on, shutting down Jack’s swell of enthusiasm with a somber shake of his head. “But it’s over. He’s seeing someone.”

“He was doing a line with you?” Jack asks, tone sharp, translating before Armie can pin him with another look, “cheating, I mean.”

“No, not exactly. I don’t think it’s that serious.” He doubts that Timmy would be dating anyone exclusively so soon after breaking up with Ansel, but who knows. Timmy and Ansel were serious--it hadn’t stopped Timmy from sucking coke off this thumb when they first met. Maybe that’s all Armie was, a pit stop between the two. A means to an end.

He couldn’t understand the rules Timmy was playing by. He was always changing them too, writing new ones, taking old ones away, and Armie was always in violation.

“I don’t understand,” Jack breathes, taking a short drag from the cigarette, chewing into his lip. “You said you’d had a row and weren’t talking but then there he was, at our door, looking like he was about to piss himself.” Jack tilts his chin, amused, “Probably thought I was your new ride.”

Armie doesn’t understand it either, let alone explain it. He opens his hands and shrugs. As far as he’s concerned, their blowout at Dakota’s was an obvious end to things. Since then he’d done everything in his power to steer clear of Timmy, especially once Matty entered the picture.

He thought removing himself from the situation was doing right by them both but it was Timmy who kept putting himself in Armie’s path, showing up where he lived, at his shows, now here...

He’s never played fair.

Jack is looking at Armie when his eyes refocus. His eyebrows lift in silent question, but Armie can’t remember the last thing he said. After another beat Jack stands away from the table and wordlessly dips back inside to snag them a six pack from the fridge.

From their second story balcony, Armie can make out a DUI checkpoint taking place at the end of the block. When Jack sits back down and slides him a Stone, he steers the conversation towards it, seeking reprieve from the topic of Timmy.

“Okay, the pick up truck just now passing through the intersection. Do you think the cops wave him off the road or let him go?”

Jack squints, peering down. “Dunno...maybe he slides by.”

They stay outside making bets on which cars will be pulled over for sobriety tests, forcing the other to drink whenever they guess right.

A sleek sports car is waved into a roped off parking lot swarming with police cars and Jack hisses. “Damnit!” He knocks back the rest of his beer.

“That one was a giveaway,” Armie laughs. “They tried to reverse out of the lane, twice once they realized what was holding up traffic.” Jack throws up his shoulders, conceding his win. He spins over a new bottle and they ease into silent contemplation.

Armie subconsciously rubs at a spot on his chest where Timmy scratched him. It stings and his train of thought strays towards where else Timmy may have left battle wounds.

Jack somehow reads the look that passes over his face even though they’re sitting in near-total darkness. “Maybe he’ll come around,” he offers freely, and it’s only the sincerity in his voice that neutralizes Armie’s impulse to be snide.

“I don’t think so,” he says quietly, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle, snapping it off and dropping it inside the neck. “Anyway, It’s for the best. The kid doesn’t know what he wants.”

“And you?” Jack asks, catching Armie off guard.

Armie shifts and pops open another beer before he answers. He tenses his mouth, eyebrows jumping up, “We fucked. Isn’t that the end goal?”

Jack’s eyes soften. “Doesn’t have to be,” he says.

“It always has been for me. Gets too messy otherwise.”

Jack looks like he wants to point something out but Armie sees him calculate the odds of it sticking the landing and shelves the comment.

They finish their six pack and move on to passing a blunt until it gets late and they surrender to exhaustion.

Armie collapses into bed fully-dressed and face-first. His shoulders are sore and, breathing in against his pillow, he remembers why; Timmy was with him here, just hours ago, demanding his attention, his hips liquid, his stare heavy.

Every time they’re together it’s like taking a hit of some yet-unnamed substance.

The high is unreal, but it doesn’t last, and tonight’s comedown is a nosedive. He can still feel Timmy’s mouth moving against his, his touch needy, his want undeniable. It had run Armie through.

And yet already he’s gone again, likely falling to sleep next to somebody else.

Armie shifts in bed and something pricks him. He fusses with his shirt and pulls loose a long, dark hair that has sewn itself into the fabric, holds it away in the weak light from his window and watches it swayed by his breath.

He brushes it out of sight and throws an arm over his eyes, begs for sleep to take him.

-

The next morning Armie decides that the only way forward is, well, forward. He has to cut loose this melancholy cancer that he’s been lugging around and the first step in excising it is to stop running into Timmy.

With enough time and enough sex, he will be able to push through the chronic ache that’s set up shop in his side, and bring some semblance of normalcy back into his life.

-

His plan goes swimmingly for over a month, before fate intervenes again.

-

DLID practices twice a week, but that’s the only time Armie sees Dakota and Dev. He resolutely turns down invites to her house parties and going out, knowing full well who would likely be in attendance.

Timmy has poisoned his well of friends so as the weather cools, Armie puts in more and more time with fringe groups disconnected from his usual scene. And Jack.

Jack makes frequent appearances in his plans now that they live together, which has been good and bad--for his mental and physical health, respectively. They go drinking nearly every night, and have formidable pull at the bars together, always scoring a pair of cute girls by last call, always sharing a cigarette once they leave unless Jack goes soft and lets his spend over. Armie never lets his conquests sleep in his bed.

Tonight, however, they’re behaving themselves at home, nursing whiskey-cokes on the couch.

“What the fuck are we watching?”

“Empire of Passion,” Jack grins, his teeth a crescent of white in the dark, “A hard-hitting, red-blooded supernatural tale of forbidden love, murder, and retribution.”

“Ah, how could I forget,” Armie drones, tipping back a sip of beer. He props both feet up on the ledge of the coffee table, squinting at the screen as a man is strangled on the television.

It isn’t the most thrilling way to spend a Sunday night, but turning Jack down is near-impossible when he gets a bug up his ass about wanting to show Armie one of his favorite films. They’ve been living together for over a month and he still hasn’t figured out how to say no to even Jack’s worst ideas, of which there are plenty.

Armie is _still_ sore from the drunken kickball tournament he signed them up for last weekend. He’s pretty sure he has a bruised rib, but it isn’t anything a couple Norco a day can’t fix.

And though Jack might put him in an early grave, Armie can’t complain. Eating shit when he misfired and nailed Armie on a run for home plate is nothing compared to what Jack has put up with.

He isn’t one to let Armie suffer in silence, and Armie deals with pain like a feral animal, lashing out when all anyone wants is to help. He spends the first half of September licking his wounds and the second half making up for shitty behavior.

Hence these movie nights. It’s the least he can do.

They’re near the best part of the film, according to Jack, but Armie’s phone buzzes from his back pocket and he has no scruples about answering, regardless of not recognizing the number displayed across the screen.

“Hello?”

“Armie?”

“Uh huh…” He doesn’t recognize the voice.

“How are you, mate? It’s Matty!”

“Oh. Hey, Matty,” he says, gaze rolling towards Jack, who mouths _‘what the fuck?’_ and hits pause on the blu-ray controller. “I’m good. You?”

Armie doesn’t understand why he’s calling. The only thing blinking red at the forefront of his mind is that Dakota is hurt, but why would he be hearing it from Matty of all people. His heart contracts. Maybe it’s Timmy.

He doesn’t allow himself to ruminate on that scenario.

“Brilliant, yeah,” Matty beams, squashing his worry, “I’ll just cut to the chase. The 1975 are going to play a few California dates later this month and I want DLID to open.”

Armie doesn’t say anything.

“I’m feeling rusty after taking so much time off. This is a way to dip my feet back in before rescheduling the rest of our tour. I already chatted with Dev and Dakota, but I wanted to ask you directly.” He takes a breath. “Timmy might come along as our photog too, if that’s alright with you.”

Strangely, as soon as Matty mentioned tour, Armie had assumed that Timmy would be involved. Why wouldn’t he? With Armie’s shit luck, the universe wouldn’t have bestowed this opportunity upon him otherwise.

Timmy is a fixed point in his life now and he’s realizing that he’ll never truly be rid of him, can only hope to manage the symptoms. Like hepatitis.

Even with the threat of Timmy to dissuade him, Armie can’t deny the opportunity to play in front of a crowd like the ones the 1975 will bring in. They have a cult following. These will be sold out shows, for sure. Especially since they’ve been on hiatus while Matty sobered up.

He doesn’t let himself dissect what being trapped on tour with Timmy might feel like because that’s irrational, something he can put a lid on with enough narcotics.

The only way to see this is as an opportunity, and he’s grateful.

“My boss is going to have my nuts,” Armie sighs, and Matty parses out what that means, that he’s in.

He makes a gleeful noise, “Ace!” and then re-composes himself. “Fuckin’ chuffed to hear that, Armie. I’ll have Dakota send you all the details. We end at The Observatory in San Diego with stops here, Sacramento, Santa Barbara, and San Francisco. First date is October 19 in Sacramento. Announcement goes up in the morning and tickets will be live at noon.”

That’s a lot to process. Armie is still trying to digest it all when Matty pipes up again. “Don’t worry, it’s all going to be in the email. Talk later, Armie. You’re a bloody rockstar!”

Dazed still, Armie just chuckles and tells Matty goodbye, lifting the phone away from his ear to hang up.

Jack reappears, clearly having eavesdropped on the entire conversation from the hall. “You’re going out on tour with that gobshite?”

“And Timmy,” Armie informs him glumly, but he’s warmed by Jack’s loyalty. “It’s just going to be a few dates, in-state. It will put the band in front of a shit ton of new people though. We’ll be playing to bigger crowds than we’ve ever had.”

Jack is reluctantly pleased for him. “Alright.” He unwinds. “And it’s later this month? Are you going to miss Halloween?”

“Nah, we’ll be back by then. You need to help me think of an excuse for work.”

Jack looks relieved. “Perfect. It’s my favorite holiday— I plan on getting pissed and finding a girl dressed like Elvira. You can’t miss it.”

“You’re a weird fucker, you know that?” Armie laughs, socking him in the arm before reaching over to press play on the movie. He puts effort into following the plot, listening to Jack’s running commentary but ultimately spends the last half hour wholly caught up by the dread and excitement swirling in his bloodstream.

This could easily go very badly or unbelievably well.

-

They leave for tour on a Friday morning.

Both bands are pulled into an Arco gas station to fuel up. The first gig is tomorrow at Ace of Spades in downtown Sacramento. The plan is to get there early to crash at a hotel and rest up for tomorrow’s show.

Armie’s backpack for the trip is evenly split between clothing, gas station snacks, and drugs. His provisional plan is to stay away from Timmy, and when that inevitably fails, dose himself into complacency.

“Here.” Dakota climbs out from the van and throws a blue paper gift bag at Armie; he catches it, cigarette dangling from his lower lip. “I bought a present for you.”

Armie raises a distrustful eyebrow, but opens the bag, fishing out a brand new pair of black running shorts, in the same style as the pair he already wears when drumming. He grins, testing the waistband, and she responds by brushing a fond kiss over his cheek. “Alternate this time, yeah? I love you, but I don’t want to smell your sweaty fucking ass all week long.”

Dakota pushes her sunglasses on, swinging the rented van keys around her index then climbs into the driver’s seat. She starts adjusting the seat and the mirror, on first shift for driver duty. Armie flips her off through the passenger side window.

Dev closes the gas lid and pounds a fist against the side of the van, circling back towards Armie.

Dakota starts the engine and Dev reaches out to steal the rest of Armie’s cigarette. “We’re all set,” he says, looking over across the lot where Matty and his band are gathered. “What are we waiting on?”

Right at that moment, the answer pulls up in a black Honda Civic with an Uber sticker tramp stamp. Timmy spills out of the backseat, camera bag dangling from one arm and an oversized backpack hoisted against his shoulder blades. His hair is a mess, his eyebrows dipping apologetically inward and even from this distance Armie can sense his shame. It would be endearing if his arrival didn’t mean misery.

Armie’s spent most nights leading up to tour convincing himself that this wasn’t going to be a big deal, but it was for nothing; he is still completely unbalanced by seeing Timmy again. The last time they shared the same air Armie was anchored to the earth by his naked weight and they were fucking.

There have been nearly a dozen people on their backs in his bed since, but it was still Timmy he saw behind his eyelids late at night when he couldn’t sleep, hugging his hips with his thighs and panting sweet breath in his ear.

Armie’s been kidding himself these last few weeks, thinking that they’re going to be able to coexist without incident. Timmy is a magnet with an opposite charge, and Armie won’t be able to ignore his pull. Even from across the parking lot, Timmy wearing a stupid fucking outfit with his pants tucked into his socks, something innate that Armie hasn’t figured out how to dismantle yearns to meet him halfway.

Timmy ducks to wave the Uber driver off then turns around, looking right past Armie, or at least past their van, and starts running directly to the 1975. To Matty, who when Armie turns, is all smiles.

Armie looks back at Timmy and thinks he looks like a kindergartner, curls and backpack bouncing as he skitters across the asphalt. Like this is the first day of school and he’s just seen his favorite teacher.

“You good?” He can feel Dev’s eyes on him.

“Yeah.” Armie answers, caging whatever it is that comes to life whenever Timmy’s around. “Let’s get fucking moving.”

-

It’s unsettling, having Timmy so close for the six hour trip. The vans drive side-by-side for a long stretch of road and Armie can’t help looking for him in the other van’s reflected windows. He finds Timmy’s figure through the glass, slumped towards the window, sleeping for a little while, cheek slipping down his palm. Matty is strapped into the middle seat next to him, and after a particularly bumpy overpass, Timmy tumbles the other way, falls back to sleep leaning on Matty’s shoulder.

Armie remembers waking up next to Timmy at his apartment, remembers his deceptively tender request for Armie to come back to the bed before he could make a clean escape. Remembers the way his mouth had unfurled into a smile under Armie’s kiss.

His turn to drive doesn’t come soon enough. They get out at a rest stop to play musical chairs and piss. Armie takes off his sweater since Dakota can’t stand the air blasting and folds himself into the captain’s chair. When they merge back onto the freeway he re-arranges their caravan into lead-follow, merging ahead of the 1975 van, and takes over the aux cord.

Dakota complains loudly about his music choice, bopping him with her sudoku book every ten miles when he doesn’t switch to a new artist. Dev, an expert in dealing with their petty arguments, removes himself from the situation by kicking both feet up onto the dashboard and plugging into a podcast on his phone.

“I survived your Belle & Sebastian, Dakota,” Armie informs her. “You can handle one Rancid album.”

She swipes his soda from the cup holder and takes a spiteful swig. “Not likely.”

-

They pull up into the cramped parking lot of a shitty-looking hotel in the late afternoon, having stopped for lunch just after the grapevine. Someone on the 1975’s payroll has booked them five rooms--two for Matty’s band, one for Armie’s, and two for their roadies.

Dev helps him get all of their shit moved to the room; they’ll be sharing one bed, while Dakota gets the other to herself. She starfishes out on top of the covers to illustrate this point and Armie comments that he hopes she gets bed bugs.

Once they’re settled everyone splits off into groups to explore, most places walking distance from where they’re staying. The front desk has a handy map with places of interest in the grid.

Armie sets off on his own, but runs into Matty and Timmy holding hands in line at a bar later that night. From the back they look like twins, both skinny and bird-boned, with dark, raucous curls. Timmy’s sweater is too big around the neck, stretched open and exposing the beginnings hickeys at the top of his spine.

Before Armie can get stuck on wondering how far down the marks go, he nopes right the fuck out of there and retreats to his room, choosing to raid the mini-bar and drink alone.

Not even twenty four hours on the road together and he’s lost count of the number of times he’s self-edited to keep things running smoothly.

If this is any indication for how the rest of the tour is going to go, he may not have been dire enough in his initial forecast. That, or the drugs he’d packed aren’t strong enough. Timmy is a persistent little shit, even without trying to be.

-

The first show, when it finally comes around that next evening, goes unbelievably well.

Sometimes, bands with cult followings have asshole fans. They don’t give two shits about the openers, laying in wait by the bars instead of watching the stage.

But people here for Matty’s band don’t operate that way. They’re stacked half-way back in the auditorium before DLID even takes their place.

The crowd responds to Dakota immediately, their shining star. She is a cult leader in her red tube top and patterned bell-bottoms, enthralling and charismatic. She owns the attention, looking like there’s nowhere in the world that would dare try to contain her.

Armie has to keep standing up to pinch down the inseam of the new shorts Dakota bought for him, they’re too small and keep riding up. Every time he re-adjusts, a wave of cheers crash over the stage. His shirt is off after three songs, and some girl dives over the barricade for it, rushed off by security with it clutched victoriously to her chest.

Dev points at the ridiculous scene with the neck of his bass. He’s on fire tonight, feeding energy into Armie while they play, spilling by Armie’s floor tom and flipping him off with a cheeky smile between bass licks.

The club is dark, with massive ceilings and ornate chandeliers lining the walls. Armie feels endorphins pulsing through him, wiping the sweat from his brow to watch the crowd undulate in time with their song.

He doesn’t see Timmy shooting them in the crowd, but he could be hidden behind a speaker. For once, wrapped up in their sound, Armie doesn’t look for him.

He is rushed by a wave of content. It brings him a still of them three as teenagers, banging out some music in Dev’s parent’s garage, pimples and gangly. He is reminded now that playing in a band with his best friends is worth all the excess bullshit.

Once their set is over, Armie goes out back for a smoke before hiding himself in the balcony to watch the 1975 perform. A part of him wants to miss it, but really, none of how he feels is really Matty’s fault--if it weren’t for him, DLID wouldn’t be here at all.

A girl in a dress with a zipper that runs all the way up its back slinks up next to Armie while he waits. She has a plastic cup in her hand and too much lipgloss. He’s sweating through his new shirt, still flying from their thirty minutes, so he doesn’t engage.

After awhile, she wanders off. Then the track music cuts and the crowd goes fucking bonkers.

Long, black silhouettes waltz out on stage and the decibels in the club fly off the charge. Armie is witness to the entire crowd crushing in half towards the front of the stage, everyone yanked in unison by some invisible string, needing in their bones to be as close as humanly possible to their post-modern messiah.

Matty’s presence under the shining lights is a force.

He’s not just performing. The 1975 is a full on experience, with Matty guiding each and every emotional run. It’s clear from the moment the first song starts all the way to the encore they break into once the fans chant for a solid two minutes _one more song_ that he’s the real deal, a carrier of the X factor.

Armie can’t peel his eyes away from him, no matter what other ill-fitting emotions curl in his gut at the flippant roll of his hips. Matty is wearing only black jeans and a denim jacket that Armie recognizes as belonging to Timmy. His curls are loose, flopping all over the place while he glides through space, bent double to grind out a chorus. He’s all tattoos and trim muscles dancing across the stage, tongue out, smile hypnotic.

Jealousy sours Armie’s mood but beneath it, he thinks that he’s starting to understand. Timmy is attracted to brilliance — Armie thinks of Timmy telling him about Ansel and his MD, even an ex-girlfriend who's become the Casting Director Assistant for Fox Searchlight, and now Matty.

Armie doesn’t see where he could fit in that group portrait Timmy’s painted for himself. His lack thereof may explain why he’s standing here on the balcony with some girl’s hands against the small of his back instead of wherever Timmy is, doing whatever Timmy’s doing.

-

After the show and during the routine afterparty, Armie makes himself scarce. Last he’d seen Timmy was dancing on a couch, drunk, half-dressed, all hips and skin. Armie couldn't hack it.

Their equipment is lined up by the exit and he decides to take on the task of loading it into the trailer by himself.

Half an hour later, he’s putting away the last few parts of his kit, sweating despite the brisk autumn air. Armie slides a few stands in then steps back. Somebody wolf whistles from down the block, but he doesn’t look, cracks his neck and rotates his shoulders to work out the kinks before turning to grab Dakota and Dev’s guitar cases.

There’s a loud yawn of sound from the party when a door opens and Armie glances up, eyes center as he spots Matty heading his way.

“Alright, mate?” Matty greets, pulling Timmy’s denim jacket on over a floral button up.

“Hey,” Armie responds carefully. Despite knowing Matty for years, they’d never bridged the separation between acquaintances and friends. The closest they got was a few years back, when Matty was still using; their bands had rented an air bnb for the new year and spent it getting trashed, having the time of their lives.

It was before he moved to help with the family business. Everything felt so simple.

Armie doesn’t relate to sober Matty, but he does respect him. It’s just hard to _like_ him now that he’s the one Timmy clings to while he sleeps.

Matty pulls a cigarette out from behind his ear, hair drooping over the side of his face, stirred by the disruption. “Fag?” He offers the stick to Armie, who declines. Matty hums and puts the cigarette back behind his ear, along with the curls.

“Hmm,” he muses, fingers sliding into his jacket pocket, procuring a perfectly wrapped joint. “What about a bit of weed then?”

Armie raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t know the details of Matty’s sobriety, but he can’t recall having seen him with any other substance except a glass of wine on stage.

“Aren’t you sober?” Armie asks, blunt and brash. Matty laughs, starts to work on lighting up the j.

“I’m not slamming fucking heroin anymore, yeah.” He takes a long drag from the joint, holds his breath for a few ticks. “Don’t worry, mate. Marijuana’s not a gateway drug, I promise.” He winks, exhaling a plume of smoke into the night sky.

Despite himself, Armie laughs and accepts the joint when it’s passed over to him. They smoke for a few minutes, mostly in silence, occasionally sharing passing remarks about tour, life in general. Nothing substantial.

Armie’s head is thick with haze when Matty brings up Timmy.

“Seems like Timmy’s legless in there.” Armie shrugs and Matty smirks. “Quite a handful when he’s drunk, isn’t he?”

Armie wonders if maybe Matty just doesn’t know how to handle Timmy now that he’s on the straight and narrow. Armie lifts a shoulder again and hands the end of the joint back to Matty. He’s done. “I wouldn’t know.”

Armie isn’t naive enough to think that Matty doesn’t know about his shit with Timmy. In fact, shamefully he hopes that Matty is all too aware of what’s gone on between them, especially the part of Timmy coming over asking to be fucked after they met.

Matty’s brown eyes are gentle but calculating. Armie doesn’t like the assessment of his stare. He bends to put the guitar cases into the trailer.

Matty helps him with the amps. When they’re done, Armie locks the trailer door and pockets the key.

“Thanks,” he says with a nod. “For the joint and the help.” Even though he didn’t ask for it.

Matty claps him on the arm and turns to head into the venue. Armie clocks his retreat but he halts, spins on a heel and bends forward to come back over.

“Actually, mate. I just want to make sure we’re ace.” He runs a hand through his hair, flipping the curls to one side, exposing a wide sliver of shaved skull. “Are we good, we’re cool?”

Armie doesn’t need him to expand on why he would ask that, but Matty, always the diplomat, explains himself regardless. “I know you and Timmy had a bit of a thing that went arse-up. I’m not trying to start any shit.” His eyebrows do the wave. “I like you, Hammer.”

There’s a second when Armie considers how Matty might react if he told him that he wasn’t okay with it, that he should back the fuck off Timmy, or at least quit while he’s ahead. Get in, get out -- Timmy’s trouble. He would know.

Defensiveness bolsters the idea but something subdues him, the thought of Timmy being let go by Matt. Dakota’s voice echoes in the back of Armie’s head, reminding him how _good_ Matty is for Timmy.

“We’re straight,” Armie responds pointedly. They shake hands. The conversation is over.

-

The next few days pass in a blur of freeways, sweat, and drugs.

They leave Sacramento and head for the bay, spending two and a half days in San Francisco. The first show at Slim’s sold out so quickly after tickets went live that a second night was added.

They wander the city via Muni and play two shows and when Armie isn’t too fucked up for it, he spends most of his energy on getting laid. He seeks out attractive young women, prefers them short and curvy, with big breasts that won’t allow him to forget just how _womanly_ they are.

After their second night at Slim’s, Armie sinks his fingers into a sea of golden blonde hair, his pants around his ankles in the back of their van. The 1975 are only halfway through their set, but this girl was ripe when he said hello at the bar. Deciding to spend the hour getting his dick sucked instead of watching Timmy follow Matty’s sensual dancing onstage with his lens wasn’t exactly Sophie’s choice.

The woman, Megan? Molly? Fuck if he remembers, isn’t very good at giving head. Armie feels her drooling all over his cock, making his thighs wet and uncomfortable. She toothy and sloppy but she lets him pull her hair.

He closes his eyes and tries to focus in on her rhythmic bobbing, the bass from the 1975 bumping through the air. Once he’s close enough, Armie can’t help imagining a different pair of lips stretched tight around his dick and he finally shoots down the back of her throat.

At least she swallows.

-

The next morning Dakota and Dev drag him to a Farmer’s Market.

They’re compensating for their crappy diet of beer and fast food on the road by shoveling organic falafel cups into their mouths, gulping down fresh coconut water and kombucha like it's the elixir of life.

No less than ten people are carting around small dogs in designated backpacks while they peruse the stands. A shiba inu barks, startling Dev while he’s looking through a display of different honeys. He ends up dropping a bottle and having to pay when it shatters. Armie laughs for half a block.

It’s cold, the entire city entombed in a damp, grey mist. Armie wears his jacket for once. Dakota toddles along the rows of goods buried in three sweaters and a pair of fleece leggings.

Timmy texts her a few hours later, during their round of grilled chicken and pineapple tacos, asking where they are, but when she reads the text aloud and catches Armie’s expression, Dakota puts her phone away without responding.

Armie repays her by promising that he will make an appearance at her Halloween party that takes place every year.

“ _And_ dress up,” Dakota tacks on, pulling her hand out of reach when he tries to shake on their deal.

“No,” Armie deadpans, serious. He doesn’t do costumes. Once she taped a piece of paper to this black t-shirt with the words Homicidal Maniac written on it but that’s the closest he’s gotten to ever participating.

She matches his stare with one of her own, eyebrow cocking. Looking around, she cups both hands around her mouth. “Oh Timmy!” she calls in a stage-whisper. “Where are you, Timmy?”

Armie pegs her with a hunk of chicken. “You’re the worst. _Fine._ I’ll dress up.”

Her cruelty melts into glee and she squirms happily on the painted bench. “I have just the thing,” she trills, locking eyes with Armie, and then Dev, nodding, carried away by his surrender.

Great.

-

They pass through Santa Cruz early that evening, and stop off for a few hours at the Boardwalk when the other van calls to suggest it.

Both bands get dinner from a hot dog stand by the ferris wheel, most of their crew lined out along the rail to stare down the beach while they eat. Somehow Timmy ends up next to Armie, bundled in a navy New York Yankees hoodie, his hand poking out of the sleeve to hold his basket of fries.

“It’s cold,” he whines, shivering like a chihuahua in the salty breeze. His nose and cheeks are pink, his face half-obscured by the curls smooshed down by his hood.

Carnival music plays over the wooden planks of the Boardwalk as kids zip by with sticky faces, trailed by tired adults. The streetlamps buzz to life, darkness settling in.

Armie swallows his last bite and looks over his shoulder for Matty. He’s halfway down the pier with George, a giant sherbert-colored elephant wobbling on his shoulders.

“How are you this cold? There must be something wrong with you,” Armie comments, but even as he speaks he’s peeling out of his leather moto jacket, pulling out the collar of his lightweight sweater when it gets caught high around his throat. He hands the jacket over with a quirked brow and for a second TImmy just looks at him, like he must be joking.

When it’s still dangling a few long beats later, Timmy takes it and wraps up, narrow frame swimming in its wide shoulders. “Thanks,” he says quietly, serving Armie a small, appreciative smile.

Armie would start wars for that smile he is so rarely at the receiving end of anymore. “Don’t mention it.”

Timmy wets his mouth like he wants to say something, twisting on the spot, but Armie taps out. He balls up his used napkin and seals it into an empty drink cup before leaving Timmy’s side to dump his trash and head down into the sand for a cigarette.

-

That next night, Matty’s voice is a booming, auto-tuned force from the stage in Santa Barbara. “Oi! No fucking fighting at my gig. Fuck off.”

He must not be able to tell who’s involved, blinded by the flashing lights.

Armie knows. He’s been watching the spot for the last twenty minutes from a safe place behind the heavy black curtain at the edge of the stage. Immediately, he jumps the barrier from where he’s been lurking and cuts swiftly through the crowd towards the disturbance because someone has Timmy hauled in by the front of the shirt.

The offender can’t be over eighteen, but Armie isn’t thinking of the consequences when he pries them off Timmy and throws them back. The kid knocks into a group and they all go down like struck bowling pins.

There’s a whirl of shouting around him, but bigger than Armie’s compulsion to fight is the urgent, constricting concern he feels for Timmy’s well-being. He snarls at the kid and his friends to fuck off, then, with a cursory check that Timmy is okay, Armie grips him around the forearm and leads him back to a place at the edge of the stage where security guards can let them both out.

He doesn’t stop towing Timmy along behind him until they’re safely backstage.

“What happened?” he asks gruffly, not waiting for permission before gently cupping Timmy’s jaw to assess the damage. He has a welt on one cheekbone that will be a bruise by morning, but he also has red, tender knuckles which means he didn’t just stand there.

Timmy’s pupils are blown and he’s breathing hard, hands vibrating, hopped up on adrenaline. “People were talking shit,” he exhales, feeling out his face for any injury. “They think Matty isn’t as fun to watch now that he’s sober. They’re hoping he falls off the wagon again. They were _laughing_ about it.”

“That’s fucked up.”

Armie is held down by an ache in his chest at Timmy’s willingness to fight for Matty. He stumbles over the question of whether or not Timmy would feel so passionately protective over him and drops his hand away from Timmy’s cheek. “How’s your camera?”

Timmy scrambles to grab hold of it from where it hangs around his neck, but it’s fine. The lens was capped and nothing looks broken. He guides in a few long breaths, looking up at Armie, forehead shining from his time in the crowd.

“I didn’t need you to save me,” he says, and Armie opens his mouth with nothing to say.

Thankfully, Dakota steps in then to relieve Armie of his post with a push of her elbow. She chugs her drink to get to the ice then pours it into a handkerchief. Armie lingers, enjoying the way Timmy fights her and she fusses.

He’s been there; bruised and bloody, being smothered and mothered by Dakota. It’s oddly satisfying to see Timmy in the same situation.

Soon enough the familiar sounds of the 1975’s closing song die out, the rumbling of fans yelling and screaming for more echoing through the walls. A minute later the doors fly open and the band pours in.

Armie slinks down into a couch adjacent to the one Timmy is on, separated by a large coffee table that’s covered in contraband.

Matty falls into Timmy. “That was you? You’re mad, fighting like that. What’s got into you, _T_?”

A nickname. Armie fights a laugh. How sweet. He leans forward and helps himself to the small baggy he’d watched Dakota dip into earlier.

“Look what you’ve done to your gorgeous face,” Matty fusses like Dakota, but to Armie’s displeasure, Timmy leans into it this time. Even from his peripheral view, Armie sees the way Timmy’s body softens. He remembers having the same effect on Timmy, once.

Deemed to be in safe hands, Dakota rushes off with a parting kiss on Timmy’s forehead; her phone is blowing up with an endless stream of text messages. Armie watches her rainbow of expressions as she lifts the phone to her ear and immediately starts arguing on her way out the door. It must be Chris.

He catches Timmy’s voice when he tunes back in.

“I’m fine, Matty,” Timmy whines and Armie away.

“Violence is senseless, love. It doesn’t solve anything. That’s not what we’re about.”

Armie rolls his eyes, starts to busy himself with breaking up a few lines on the table, pushing aside empty beer cans and pre-rolled joints to make space.

Timmy explains what the fight was about but Armie fully tunes out when him and Matty start going around in circles. From the sound of it, Matty is upset and eventually stalks off to go clean up before meeting outside with fans.

Armie scratches his debit card across the table top and looks over at Timmy, whose cheek is red and wet from the melting ice he’d been holding to it. Their eyes lock in for a moment, Timmy looking utterly unreadable for the first time since Armie met him. It’s unsettling. He breaks the contact.

He digs in his pocket for his wallet and slides out a dollar, starts to roll it between his fingertips. “Care to join?” He offers the tightly rolled bill over the table to Timmy, knowing he’s still watching.

“Oh,” Timmy considers. He licks over his lips, his eyes bouncing from Armie’s hand, to his mouth, then over towards the door that Matty just pushed through. “No, I’m good.”

Armie barks a bitter, sharp laugh. During the late night calls on the last DLID tour, Timmy once told Armie about how he’d snorted coke off of a girl’s tits at her grandmother's wake. All of a sudden he’s worried about being offensive?

The thought of Timmy molding to whatever sober brand Matty is repping is bullshit. Matty did what he needed, good for him, but what the fuck did it have to do with Timmy?

“What, worried you’ll get another lecture about _doing the right thing?_ ” Armie smiles viciously before dipping down to sniff a line. He makes a show of gumming the residue from his card, wants Timmy to miss it, taste it. “Didn’t know you were such a pussy, _T_.”

Now it’s Timmy who looks like he might hit Armie. Everything has been turned up on its head and Armie bathes in the anger radiating off of him, watching Timmy rise to his feet, fists clenched, face flushing a pretty shade of pink.

“Fuck you.”

“You did,” Armie says, sinking back against the cushions, self-satisfied.

Timmy leaves fuming and Dakota tornadoes back in, bounds over to Armie in a determined, silent rage.

“Fuck men!” She snags the debit card from his grip and takes the spare line on the table, Timmy’s forsaken one. “Chris and I are done.”

Dakota breaking things off with Chris isn’t a shock but it is still deserving of a night of debauchery. Draining the last third of a flask filled with gin, she Yelps a korean karaoke bar that is open until 5 in the morning, sending screenshots of the address to everyone in their party.

Both bands pack up their shit and reconvene there to spend the rest of the night getting sloppy and screaming misread lyrics in a private room, all for solidarity’s sake.

Armie is fully faded by the time Timmy and the 1975 show up. He stomachs Matty’s first song for Timmy, Nice for What by Drake, but his Fleetwood Mac serenade is too much to bear. Armie can feel himself tipping towards a dangerous mood and leaves. On his way out he steals a girl from her date and brings her back in an uber to fuck before the rest of the band gets to the hotel.

She’s long gone by the time Dakota and Dev stumble in around five. Armie has already dumped the short-term memory of pushing inside and taken a shower. They pile into bed with him when he explains why the other bed looks like a bomb hit it, exasperated but still fond. Dev helps Dakota pull out of her sweater dress and they three crawl below the covers in nothing but underwear.

It’s far from a first for them.

Dakota lays in the middle, her hair splayed across the pillows, getting in Dev and Armie’s faces. She pulls a bottle of Wild Turkey out of thin air and uncaps it.

“To my favorite boys,” she mewls, taking a drink and passing it along.

Dev affectionately taps her forehead with the bottom of the bottle. “You’re our best girl.”

“What Dev said,” Armie adds, and Dakota laughs at his lack of sentiment. She rolls over and wraps an arm over his chest. She smells like lavender and whiskey, and Armie turns his head to look at her. “Yes?”

“I’ve missed you,” Dakota pouts, “why have you been you ignoring me?”

“Ignoring you?”

She’s tracing out the profile of his chin and adam’s apple. “Yeah. You kept ghosting me on hanging out. Even for your birthday.”

“That’s right. We missed your birthday, Armz. What the fuck?”

Armie doesn’t want to talk about this now, not when there are things in his system that inhibit his grip on control.

He tries his best to swerve her interrogation. “I would _never_ ghost you, baby girl,” he coos, plastering his face with an exaggerated smile. She reaches over and twists his nipple. He pulls his knees up and hisses. “Christ, ‘Kota!”

Dev spit-takes whiskey over the top blanket. “Better listen to her, mate.”

“I’m being serious, Armie.” She props herself up on an elbow, looks at Dev for backup then turning back on him with fire in her dark, eyeliner smudged eyes. “We’re best friends, we’re a fucking _band._ Don’t leave me on read, you bitch.”

Armie doesn’t even get a chance to respond before she sits up, crossing her arms over her red lace bralette. He throws an elbow over his eyes to brace himself for what’s coming his way.

“Do you really have it _that bad_ for Timmy?”

Armie lowers his arm, his blue eyes narrowed down into slits. She takes his silence as admission and maybe that’s what he wants, unable to put it into words anyhow.

“Oh, babe,” she folds in, curling into the space between his chest and tricep. She reaches out and pulls Dev in so that he’s spooned up behind her. “I’m sorry, Armie.”

Dev’s eyes meet over Dakota’s tangled hair and he gives Armie an apologetic shrug. For Dakota. For Timmy. For whatever the fuck he needs. Armie appreciates it.

Armie feels bad for dampening the mood. Not that shit was jovial in the first place but it’s nice, being here with Dev and Dakota. It’s home, regardless of where they’re holed up.

A fond, random memory burns to life in his mind, putting his feelings for Timmy in temporary darkness.

“Hey—” Armie chuckles already, before having even started reminiscing. They’re reaching that point in the night when delirium takes over. He pats Dakota’s arm to bring her back to life. “Remember when we got demolished at your sweet sixteen on MD 20/20’s and I hurled in Dev’s mom’s minivan?”

“Fuuuuck,” Dev howls at the horrifying but hilarious incident. “She was _pissed._ I missed the battle of the bands because of that, asshole.” He is smiling.

The bed shakes with their laughter.

They stroll down memory lane for a little while longer, visiting different pit stops that have lead them here, giggling in a bed on tour with one of the biggest indie bands on the scene.

Dakota falls asleep first, snoring softly against Armie’s shoulder, one arm bent back to hold Dev’s hand.

The heater kicks on with a low, steady rumble, lulling them into repose.

Armie and Dev whisper for a few minutes about the girls Dev’s been seeing, always flying under the radar with his conquests, letting Armie take all the heat.

It isn’t comfortable, exactly, but it’s the first night in over a month that Armie passes out unpinned by the grinding weight of regret.

-

They play Los Angeles Friday.

Everyone is hungover in varying degrees but happy to be home for the day.

It’s a good show. There are faces they know against the barricade and people singing the words to all of their songs. Jack waves from a spot near the Emergency Exit sign before they go on stage, a pretty girl under his arm with a beer in her hand.

Timmy shoots their set and Armie can’t lose him in the crowd, the beat nearly slipping away in one song when he lowers the camera and just stares at Armie unprotected by glass and hardware.

After the show, strangers ask him for pictures and if he has a twitter they can follow. They want to know how tag him on instagram, tickled when he tells them he doesn’t have one. Apparently the band’s account has gained thousands of new fans.

When the crowd of people wanting to speak to him outside thins, Timmy is revealed, sat on the curb smoking. He has Armie’s leather jacket looped over his arm, his hair trapped under a thin knit beanie. It’s uncanny, how small and unassuming he can look, how much space he is able to take up in Armie’s brain.

“I didn’t want to forget to give this to you,” he says when Armie drifts closer, ignoring his self-set rule of staying out of situations like these. Timmy and him, alone in the dark.

Armie takes the jacket, slipping it on so he doesn’t have to hold it. “Thanks. So what are you going to do with all these pictures you’ve been taking?””

Timmy drags his cigarette against the cement to put it out and stands.”I was thinking of putting out a photobook, just a small one. I have enough material.”

The cold air feels nice, Armie’s shirt is still damp with sweat and sticking to his chest. He wonders if he smells.

“That’d be cool.”

“Yeah?” Timmy sounds like he’s wavering between flattery and disbelief. Armie nods and his face breaks into a smile. “I’m feeling really good about some of the shots, I think.”

The thought of Timmy’s photos brings him back to the night they’d spent developing the pictures from the Peach Pit. Armie can almost see the small, cramped darkroom now, remembers marvelling at how Timmy knew his way around the equipment and the long kiss that followed.

He can also taste Timmy’s come from later that night in the back of his Altima. He clears his throat subconsciously, taking a step, then two, back.

“I have a good feeling about one I took of you on the pier the other day.” Timmy brings his thumb up to his lips, pinches his nail between his teeth. Armie fights the instinct to replace the bad habit with his mouth, to feed Timmy a better way to fulfil his oral fixation.

“You’ll have to show me when you develop them,” he says, quickly providing a follow-up. “I mean, via text or something.” _Not at your place, like before._

Timmy’s face looks sad for a moment, but then he sprouts a smile. “I thought you didn’t text.”

Armie rolls his eyes, a thread of his heart being pulled by Timmy’s ribbing. “I can look at a fucking picture,” he allows, and Timmy laughs.

“You’re ridiculous.”

The back door bursts open and the girl running merch for both bands--Sarah?--emerges, a box full of t-shirts in her arms. She gives them a wayward glance, picking up on the fragile mood, then teeters towards the 1975 van.

Timmy gives Armie another one of his unreadable faces and wordlessly scurries after her to help load up.

-

They drive and stay overnight at a hotel in San Diego, their last stop in the tour.

Armie is in the room and Dakota and Dev are at the corner bar with the 1975, Matty excluded.

Armie knows that he isn’t there because he can hear the low, musical lilt of his voice through the wall. He’s speaking in a hushed tone between slow, rhythmic thumps.

Armie’s heart slams pure aggression against his rib cage as he fights to tune out.

He shatters entirely when he hears a deep, unmistakable moan echo through the poorly built plasterboard. _Timmy._

The pounding against the wall grows insistent, as do the moans that signify what can’t be mistaken for anything except for the two of them fucking.

There isn’t a volume level high enough for his headphones to drown it out, not a strain of weed potent enough to make him indifferent. Armie recognizes each throaty pull of noise from Timmy, can reintegrate it into his stark rememberings of being the one to incite such sounds.

Throwing on a sweater, he flees the scene. There is a girl in a denim mini-skirt beating up a vending machine in the alcove downstairs. It doesn’t take much sweet talking before she’s bent over with both hands pressed to the illuminated Coca Cola sign, up on her tippy toes so that Armie can nail her from behind.

He hooks her underwear to the side and tries his damndest to bury the thoughts of Timmy and Matty inside her heat.

Armie comes, dumps the condom in an ovaled plastic trash can and heads back upstairs feeling no less miserable.

Armie isn’t even surprised when he sees Timmy standing in the hallway wearing sweats and holding an empty bucket of ice. It was like they were connected by a malicious, invisible string, unable to stray further than a hundred feet apart.

His cheeks are flushed and his curls are screaming just how hard they’d been pulled, mussed and unstructured.

“Really?” Timmy remarks, waving towards the hem of Armie’s sweater. There’s a smear from the girl who’d just let him blow off steam. He should have taken it off first, or raked it up. At least she enjoyed herself.

How Timmy knows what the makeup of the stain is, he can only guess; they could have been quieter.

Armie glares openly at him. “I’m sorry. Does this bother you?”

“Screwing random people isn’t going to make you feel any better, Armie.”

“That’s hilarious, coming from you.”

“What are you talking about?” Timmy bristles. “I’ve just been with Matty.”

Armie wets his fingers and uses them to pinch out the end of his cigarette, flicking it over the railing and into the pool area down below. He laughs. “I wish I’d known sooner that you were the fucking welcome wagon.”

Right on cue, Armie ignores Timmy’s narrowed green eyes. He feels his simmering anger finally bubble over, but can’t decide who he’s more pissed at: Timmy or himself.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Armie motions over Timmy’s entirety, nodding back towards the room Matty must be waiting for him in. “Every time somebody Dakota knows comes back into town, there you are, spreading your legs for them. Pasting over whatever you don’t like with something new when things get rough.”

It’s out of line but he’s already spoken and he does enjoy the way Timmy’s face reactively crumples. “You’re just trying to hurt me,” Timmy says in a long, measured breath.

“That’s my job apparently,” Armie shrugs, looking away from Timmy’s shining gaze. “I’m the big bad wolf and you’re just innocent red riding hood, skipping through the forest, minding his own business.” He shakes his head. “Except that you’re not.”

“Armie,” Timmy warms.

“No. You’re not minding your own business.” Armie stalks a few steps in. “You’re out in the woods, looking for the wolf, hunting it down and fucking _begging_ it to eat you.”

Timmy holds his advances for a few intense seconds and stupidly Armie considers kissing him; it’s an automatic instinct when they’re this close. But then Timmy steps out of range, shoulders falling from where he’d squared them only moments ago.

“Me coming to your apartment was a mistake,” he admits. Meaning _fucking_ was a mistake, meaning _Armie_ was a mistake.

It’s confirmation of what he already knew but Armie isn’t done with the fight yet. He’s wound up and out of control, would pull at his hair if he had any. He scrubs over his face instead, bites the webbing between thumb and forefinger in frustration. “I can’t get away from you,” he sighs, grief mixing in with his anger. His high is cresting downwards. “You’re everywhere. At Dakota’s when I lived there, at my shows. Here, now. I stopped hanging out with friends I’ve had since high school because you are always with them.”

Timmy’s eyebrows knit together. “That’s not what I was trying to do,” he says in little more than a whisper, picking at the screws holding the ice bucket to its handle. “I don’t want that.”

“And it’s your game we’re playing. You say stop, you say go, and if I drag my feet or question the rules you find someone new to play with.”

That has Timmy tripping over himself to respond, face swelling with emotion, lips quivering. He folds down to drop the bucket. “Armie, I didn’t realize. _Please,_ ” he says, but Matty’s voice cuts him off there.

“Timmy? You out there?”

His question slices between them, drifting down the hall and around the corner. He’s probably not dressed, the door hiding him, barely cracked to seek Tim out.

Timmy looks towards the sound and back, his eyes huge.

“Just go,” Armie tells him. This isn’t going anywhere good. Timmy hesitates, hugging the ice bucket, and Armie motions to the machine. “Don’t forget your ice,” he says, and goes back to his room.

-

The show at the Observatory in San Diego is a big one, a great end to their run, but Armie is drained. He functions on autopilot, only coming to life during their set when he realizes that over the past week, unfamiliar crowds have now started to recite their words, chanting along. There are factions of people here to see _them_ , not just out for the 1975.

DLID does a three song encore for the first time, one of them being an unpracticed old song because they’ve ran through most of their material. It all goes over well. Applause and cheering chases them off the stage.

The high of a good set dissipates when Armie goes backstage and catches Timmy splayed over Matty’s lap, lounging against the arm of the green room sofa while Matty uses his thigh as a makeshift drum. They’re both singing a song that Armie doesn’t give a shit about.

Armie thinks back to their argument at the hotel last night, remembers the mud he was slinging. The harsh reality of what he said isn’t what feels like a gut punch though — it was Timmy’s stuttering mouth, his eyes wide and helpless. Armie knows he wouldn’t have given Timmy a chance to defend himself even if they weren’t interrupted, but even so, the moment chafes him. Unresolved.

He watches Timmy slide off Matty’s lap and when they share a simplistic, familiar kiss, he walks out.

The world feels tilted too far off its axis; Armie can’t find his footing. He’s tired and not just from tour, from everything; drinking, drugs, random fucks. His body feels overused and dried up.

Dev and Dakota pick up on Armie’s fast decline. They don’t question when he takes off after packing up the van, choosing to eat dumplings across the street on his own while they stay to support the 1975’s last performance.

More and more, isolation is becoming when he’s most at peace.

There is no team celebration once all is said and done. Maybe that was the inital plan, but Armie doesn’t venture back into the green room again, waits for Dev and Dakota by the van and drives them back home, dropping himself off first.

Dakota and Dev offer to drop the equipment at the warehouse on the way, well-accustomed to Armie’s bad moods, probably too spent themselves to put in time prying out what’s brought this one on.

He’s grateful for it, giving them both half-hugs at the curb then dipping into a liquor store across the street. The shopkeeper is closing up but lets him in, knowing him by face if not name. Armie stalks the fluorescent aisles like a zombie, picking out poison with no preference for type or label.

Jack is home and more than willing to celebrate his return when Armie walks in with the abundance of booze tucked under his arms.

“There’s my boy!” he whoops, greeting Armie with an overzealous hug. He helps him inside with his stuff, looking domestic and comfortable in a long sleeve shirt and maroon joggers.

Armie drops his suitcase by his door and does a line of Oxy in the bathroom, forgoing a shower so he can start getting shitfaced immediately. At Jack’s request, he does change his shirt though, wrestling into a plain black muscle tank.

With the dedication he puts into it, achieving total drunkenness only takes an hour or two.

“You’re the real fucking deal, Jack. You know that?” Armie garbles, wasted, his elbow slipping off his knee. He throws the other arm around Jack’s shoulders. “You’re my best friend now.”

Jack snakes an arm over Armie’s back. Their foreheads crash with inebriated indifference to how rough they’re handling one another.

“That’s unfortunate,” Jack teases. “I must have fucked a nun in a past life to end up stuck with you.”

Armie laughs so hard he sputters, making Jack laugh out as well, the coffee table covered in a fine mist of whiskey.

Their giggling subsides and they share a long look, Armie reaching out, slapping Jack’s cheek with a strong hand.

His intoxicated brain spins. His eyes focused hard on the small splash of green in Jack’s blue eyes, the pink curl of his lips. It’s easy with him; no conflict, no expectations.

Armie isn’t thinking when he molds his hand to Jack’s cheek, anchored by the warmth under his palm. He leans forward, eyes closing as he experimentally presses their mouths together.

Jack makes a sound that Armie’s sideways grip on reality interprets as encouragement. He opens his mouth and, for a half second he feels Jack go with it, tongue sliding over his bottom lip.

Then Jack grabs his wrist and pulls him off, leaning back, shaking his head.

“Armie, man, that’s not —” Jack wraps his palm around the back of Armie’s neck. Armie can already feel the rejection curdling in his stomach; he sighs. “I’m not _not_ into it, alright? It’s just not what you need to be doing right now.”

Armie pushes his hand away, falling back into the cushions. He reaches over and grabs his room temperature, half-finished Octoberfest.

“I know why you’re doing this, mate.”

Armie slaps a hand down on his knee, leaning forward again. He’s wobbly, unsteady. He puts in extra effort to narrow his eyes and whittle the two Jacks floating before him into one. Armie fucking hates when he gets like this, drunk and therapeutic. He doesn’t need Jack to fix his fucking problems. But he can’t help himself from taking the bait; the alcohol in his blood is in the driver’s seat now. Clearly.

“You don’t know what the hell you're talking about.” Armie sighs a gust of air. “ _I_ don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” He works hard to make sure his words aren’t slurred. “If you’re not down to fuck around, it’s cool, but spare me the Dr. Phil bullshit.”

Jack doesn’t look ruffled by his tone. In fact, he looks concerned, his eyebrows straining too close together, blue eyes zeroed in.

“You’re full of shite, Armie. You just called me your best mate and now you wanna ride?” Jack smiles sadly and continues to shake his head. “You’re overcompensating.”

Armie glares while Jack opens them each another beer. They’ve worked through two six packs and a fifth of JD.

“If you’re looking to shag someone you care about, you need to call up Timmy.”

His head rolls back against the couch, anger deflating in the face of Jack’s relentless kindness. “I told you, that’s over,” he exhales, looking up, the room undulating overhead.

Jack brings his gaze back down with a careful hand on Armie’s chest. “Not for you it isn’t. And that’s okay, but you’ve got to admit it to yourself. What happened during the tour?”

Armie doesn’t even know how to begin explaining what he’s feeling about that, or why. And without anything constructive to add, he plugs up his mouth with his beer, draining it slowly.

They watch whatever’s live on Shutter until Armie is towed under by sleep.

Jack is a saint.

He somehow manages to get Armie off the couch and down the hall, both arms locked around his middle. He steers them left instead of right.

“Guess you’re getting your way after all,” he remarks, guiding Armie into his room instead of dumping him to sleep off tonight alone. He tips him over onto the high bed, twisting off Armie’s boots before re-arranging his legs on top of the covers. “Just don’t get too handsy with me in the night. I’m delicate.”

Armie’s vision swims, Jack gone and then back again, fitting a plastic cup full of water into his hand. “What’re you doing?”

“Babysitting,” Jack tells him. “I don’t want to find you dead tomorrow, choked by your own sick.”

Armie chugs the water and tosses the empty cup, flipping over onto his side. He groans. “Sounds kinda nice.”

“Real romantic, right?” Jack is pulling off his long sleeve and stepping out of his pants, joining Armie in bed a minute later wearing a white t-shirt and checkered boxers.

That’s the last thing Armie remembers, except for Jack maybe putting an alarm on his phone and setting it aside. He barrels into unconsciousness after that, entering a heavy, dreamless sleep.

-

Birds are the devil’s work.

They perch in the changing leaves of the trees outside their apartment building and sing, for no good reason, from before the sun has risen to late into the morning.

Armie wakes to their god awful tittering far too early.

It always happens after a night of excess. His body kickstarts on just to verify that everything still works, that Armie’s endeavors to de-commission himself have once again failed.

His head is pounding.

His mouth tastes horrendous.

Armie swallows and grimaces, and opens his eyes.

Jack is staring back at him from a foot or so away. Well, not _staring_. He’s asleep, mouth pulled open, pillow dark with drool, but Armie can make out every follicle of stubble under his nose.

He nearly startles backwards out of bed. _What the fuck?_

Did he and Jack…?

His memory of last night is a swirl of color and disappointment. He went to the liquor store after Dakota and Dev dropped him off, then came home to Jack greeting him at the door.

That’s where the tape of his memory ends.

Frantic, he shakes Jack next to him, careful not to disturb the blanket lest he see something confidential.

Jack grumbles, shying away from Armie’s jostling, but eventually his eyes blink open, intensely blue from so close up. “Everything okay?” he yawns, squinting against the haze of morning light.

“No!” Armie all-but shouts. “What the fuck happened last night?”

Jack’s sleepy face peels into a sunny grin. He pulls himself up against the headboard and Armie follows suit, fit to burst.

“ _Well?_ ”

“You tried to wear my face off,” Jack tells him, taking a moment to yawn again and stretch. The blanket pools around their waists and Armie can see that while he may be in his boxers, Armie is still fully-clothed. “I let you down easy cause I’m a gentleman and all, then brought you back here to keep an eye. You were fucking twisted, Armie. I’ve never seen you so gone.”

Armie’s head pulses pain in response. That part checks out. “Fuck,” he sighs, running a hand over the soft buzz of his hair, thinking. He understands enough of Jack’s nonsense to know what wearing his face off means. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know it only happened because you’re emotionally stunted, and I’m a snack,” Jack says, still all smiles. How he can wake up without a hangover after a night of getting blitzed, Armie will never know.

A dramatized version of last night and the entire week of tour plays out in his mind like a film, and Armie finds that he really doesn’t like what he sees. Somewhere along the way he’s made a wrong turn.

Armie presses his eyes shut, willing the room to level out. His stomach is already in revolt. He can’t believe he almost fucked over his friendship with Jack because he’s still in tangles about Timmy. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits, squeezing his temples with his thumb and middle finger. He can’t look at Jack right now.

“Firstly, stop lying to yourself,” he suggests bluntly. “Your bloke was never just some conquest, obviously. When did you meet? June? It’s fucking October, Armie, and you’re still strung out on the lad.”

“He’s with Matty.”

“So what? You owe it to yourself to be honest with him. You’re a fecking enigma--no one knows what’s going on in that thick skull of yours. So tell him.”

Even Armie isn’t sure how to label the tangled nightmare that’s become the inside of his mind, but he nods.

“Well, now that you’ve got me up, pancakes?”

Jack flips open the blanket and drops onto his feet, looking at Armie expectantly, no hint of resentment marring his handsome face.

As far as ruining friendships for a quick lay goes, Armie could have made a worse choice.

“Pancakes,” he relents, nodding his head, still ashamed but smiling through it. “I’ll make the bacon.”

His sins exposed in the sobering light of day, Armie gets up and goes into his room to change before re-joining Jack in the kitchen. There is pancake mix all over the burners, and Jack is already drinking a beer.

He laughs at him and blows dust from one metal coil, flicking it on and finding a pan.

Armie doesn’t know how to sort his shit out but he’s determined to find a way, he’s done lashing out and being careless with the few people he cares for just because he’s hurting.

The list of people who don’t deserve it could be written in the palm of his hand, and he’s wounded them all.

There are amends to be made, and difficult conversations to be had. But first, he’ll need pancakes. And a shower.

 

**-**

**i just don't believe that you have got it in you**

**cause we are just gonna keep doing it**

**and every time i start to believe in anything you're saying**

**i'm reminded that i should be getting over it**

 

**~~i don't want your body but~~ **

**i hate to think about you with somebody else**

 

 


	9. i couldn’t be more in love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oyb sucks at vacationing, so here’s another chapter. as you’ll see, there’s only one more left after this. enjoy! we love you!
> 
> \- oyb & cpx

After tour, Timmy spends the days leading up to Halloween in a daze of overtime shifts, sleeping in, and horror movie marathons with Matty.

There’s a bag of film rolls in his backpack screaming to be developed but he isn’t ready to see the photos yet — Armie devastates in black and white and Timmy feels defenseless right now.

Matty offers to help one night, but Timmy turns him down, tells him that working in his dark room is private, a place he likes to be alone. Matty looks at him like he always does when he knows better but the guilt that usually waxes in Timmy when he lies wanes before it even has a chance to grow.

Halloween creeping closer also brings forth nonstop cajoling from Dakota for Timmy to attend to her day-of celebration. Timmy went last year dressed like Patrick Bateman, but that was before so much about Timmy was erased and rewritten.

This year her house will be a minefield.

He is relentless in declining, employing every excuse he can think of to avoid telling her the real reason he doesn’t want to go, but Dakota, always astute to his sensitivities, continuously reassures him that it will be worth it.

She’s impossible to say no to, in the end. That’s what Timmy tells himself, but he is lying if he thinks he would actually be able to keep away.

Even if it that’s what Armie wants.

Armie, who rattled him their last night of tour, who has turned him down and hurt his feelings and who he remains steadfastly desperate to see.

Even if it’s just to be yelled at again, have his shortcomings laid bare. Timmy would take the abuse over the devastation of radio silence that was September.

Matty was lovely, someone who made him think and laugh and come in the interim, but it was becoming painfully clear that, no matter his assets, he wasn’t going to be able to fill out the empty shape that wanting Armie made.

-

Halloween is brisk, palm fronds littering the ground where back home it would be crisp leaves. Timmy used to miss the cold autumn air from New York but he now be likes the way the sun burns his skin in California, even if it’s a cool day.

He pulls up at the end of the block, finding a parking spot out front quickly. By 10 o’clock tonight the narrow street will be jam packed with cars, people filing in and out for Dakota’s party, Ubers and Lyfts fighting to squeeze by, parents with their kids, scuttling past the house with punks all over the lawn, drinking and puking.

Timmy looks over at the posable skeleton he has buckled into the passenger seat of his car. Dakota had asked him to pick one up at Party City before coming over to help set up. He obliged, dropping $40 on the biggest one available, with promises from Dakota that she would pay him back in _love, kisses, and some really dank weed._ Most of the aisle was ransacked and empty, but Nigel--he looks like a Nigel--was just sitting there on a forgotten end cap, waiting for Timmy.

His eyes flicker from the prop over to Dakota’s house across the street, his mind starting up a montage of all her house parties he’s been there for.

He stops when the playback hits the month of June.

The reel spits film and spins.

Timmy closes his eyes and tries not to think about everyone he’s going to see tonight.

Not everyone. Just one person.

But the reality is that Timmy hasn’t stopped thinking about Armie since the moment he told Timmy to _open up_ in Dakota’s bathroom all those months ago.

The way things happened between them from that point was an accident, everything going down in the wrong order.

Timmy never should have kissed Armie when he still had a boyfriend, on multiple occasions. He should have had the balls to leave Ansel without the incentive of a ridiculously hot rebound, and he should have properly grieved the end of that relationship before ever thinking of pursuing another.

But, if it wasn’t obvious to everyone involved, he couldn’t think straight when it came to Armie.

When he met Armie, after months of hearing stories and none of the pictures from Dakota’s camera roll fairly representing him--Timmy couldn’t wait.

If Armie was in the room, Timmy wanted to be there with him. _On him._ It was a chemical equation he couldn’t comprehend, but that proved itself over and over again. It was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before, with anyone, or anything.

It was why Timmy couldn’t meet Armie and _not_ flirt with him, _not_ kiss him, _not_ chase him. His impatience led them to where they are now, or maybe more aptly, where they’re not.

He thinks of their lively post-mortem in Armie’s room, of the gut-wrenching mood that settled in while the two of them got dressed after, and of the long spell of silence that was to follow.

After not seeing Armie for so long, spending a week on tour together was agonizing.

Watching him getting laid nightly, the ease with which he scored beautiful women, it made Timmy feel small, like he was just one of many drawn to Armie’s careless charm.

Their connection felt more and more one-sided as the days passed. They didn’t talk. If they were left alone together for more than a minute at a time, Armie would leave without so much as offering a flimsy excuse. The bands stayed split into two camps for most of the week and Timmy remained firmly in Matty’s protective orbit, terrified that every interaction between he and Armie would only worry away at whatever good remained, if any.

Though there were a few moments that made him wonder, like Armie giving him his jacket on the boardwalk or sounding interested about his photobook idea after the show in LA, but it wasn’t enough to cling to.

And then San Diego happened.

Timmy only realized once Armie walked away that their hotel rooms were booked next to one another. He was mortified to know what Armie must have _heard_.

God, he wished so badly to be able to take it back, reliving every bitten word in a new light. There were things in that fight that Armie must have been feeling already, but it might have ended differently without the fuel of Armie hearing Timmy fucking Matty.

He can still hear the veiled anguish in Armie’s voice, shouting at him next to the ice machine.

_You’re everywhere!_

San Diego was an irreparable leap backwards.

Timmy turns and drops his head against his steering wheel. He doesn’t want to go to Dakota’s tonight.

Like she can read his mind, his phone in the center console vibrates with a text from her.

Dakota:  
Where are you?

Timmy fights the desire to run home and instead turns off the ignition. He unfastens his seatbelt and leans over to wrap an elbow around the lifesize skeleton. Smothering his third micro-breakdown of the week, Timmy throws up a peace sign and sends Dakota a photo with a caption that reads _here. had to pick up your boyfriend on the way._

Then he heads inside.

-

Dakota and Timmy stand on stools at opposite ends of the room to hang an accordian-style crepe paper banner, black and orange jack o’ lanterns grinning in two directions. Without a third person to edit their aim, it ends up a little lopsided, but it’s festive as fuck and kicks them headlong into decoration mode.

Plastic ghosts are tacked to the walls, black bat garlands swooping from the ceilings. Timmy puts up a beaded curtain made of skulls at the opening of the hall while Dakota mixes something noxious together in a giant punch bowl on the kitchen counter. Timmy scrunches his nose and coughs when she makes him taste test the opaque red broth.

“You’ll kill everyone,” he warns with a laugh. Dakota winks.

“Tis the season.”

She has two bags of ice in the freezer, alongside six bottles of tequila that won’t be needed until closer to party time.

“I’m so glad I requested tomorrow off,” Timmy says, blowing up a lifesize Frankenstein with his mouth, face already tinged pink from the strenuous lung effort required. He should probably stop smoking.

Dakota giggles. “Yeah, how’d you manage that?”

Timmy shrugs. “My lead, Daniel. He loves me,” he says and Dakota rolls her eyes.

“Who _doesn’t_ love you, Timmy?”

One person in particular comes to mind.

After stringing pumpkin-shaped lights outside through the backyard bushes and fighting with synthetic spider webs, the sun finally sets.

They both spend half an hour trying to figure out how to get the fog machine to work and, when it whirs to life, cheer and fall into a pair of plastic chairs.

Dakota sparks up a joint for them to pass back and forth so they can lounge in the dense fog that smells like oddly like syrup and watch it blend with the smoke from their lungs.

They laze in the calm before the storm. Soon enough they will have to shout at this distance to hear one another. The house will be brimming with half-assed costumes and happy voices.

“Maybe we should quit our jobs and become party decorators,” Dakota says through a thin inhale. Just then a set of lights slip off the awning and hangs like a noose from a center beam.

They explode into laughter, witnessing it slowly uncoiling and dropping into the grass. Then it’s time to go inside and get into costume.

-

Timmy looks himself over in the mirror, pulling tight the purple coat he’d managed to thrift at Goodwill yesterday before work. He’s wearing his cropped pinstripe pants, a grey button up and a dark forest green vest he’d found in the boys section at Target that sadly still fit. Timmy considers the tie he’d brought along but tosses it aside; he fucking _hates_ ties.

Tiptoeing in his pair of high top black Chuck Taylor’s, he decides that his look is more of a hipster version Ledger’s Joker, which is probably disrespectful but whatever. He tried.

“God, who allowed you to look like that?” Dakota catcalls from her bed, patting an empty spot. “Now come get your makeup done.”

She has a rainbow of product laid out over her comforter, some cheap stuff he’d picked up mixed with what she already owns. Timmy folds himself to sit on the mattress in front of her, criss-cross, their knees touching.

Dakota squeezes out a huge glob of white face paint onto the back of her palm, scooping it with a wedge of sponge. Timmy flinches when she starts dabbing his face, not loving the way the substance feels on his skin, cold and tacky. He crinkles his nose where it starts to itch and Dakota tells him to stop.

Timmy keeps checking her work in the front facing camera of his phone, backseat driving her techniques, and eventually she asks him to just pull up a reference photo from google.

“I think that lipstick is too red,” he whines and she fondly rolls her eyes.

“Oh my god, _Timmy_ ,” Dakota laughs. He gives her an apologetic smile. Maybe it’s stupid that he cares how the Joker makeup turns out, but she softens and kisses the tip of his nose, her lips white when she pulls back. “You look fucking rad. Promise.”

He moves to put his phone down but it buzzes as soon as it hits the blanket. He must pull a face because Dakota eyes him. “Who is it?”

“It’s Matty,” Timmy mutters while typing back a reply, his head bent down into his phone. “He sent me a photo of his costume.” He holds up his phone to show her Matty’s alternative take on a “robber.” Leather jacket layered over black jeans, black boots, a floral shirt mostly unbuttoned and a black bandana tied around the lower half of his face.

“Fucking Matty,” she grins, shaking her head.

Soon, Dakota is finished up with his makeup and dips her fingers into a wide jar of coconut oil to grease his hair, working in silence for a minute while Timmy texts Matty back, occasionally smiling. He fires off a final message then holds up his phone with the camera again to check her progress.

“I think you need to comb it more to the side,” he comments, earning himself a soft, chiding pinch on the thigh. He laughs.

“So,” Dakota says, nudging his knee with her own as she coaxes her hands through his curls, making them stringy and feral. “How are you processing the news?”

When Timmy looks up at her for clarification, her eyes blink towards his phone and he realizes what she’s referencing.

A few nights ago Matty came over to break the news that the 1975 were going to head back to England, with plans to finally finish up their next record now that he was well into recovery. _I’m feeling really good, T. And I have you to thank for some of that. It’s time to get home._

“Oh.” Timmy shifts, a closed smile pulling his lips straight. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

He shrugs, putting his phone away, and Dakota stops what she’s doing. She leans back, raising her sharp eyebrows up as high as they go. Timmy chuckles awkwardly and shakes his head, her fingers tangling deeper. “Really,” he assures her.

The relationship that had bloomed between him and Matty was special. It was unexpected and unconventional, and Timmy was far too sentimental to believe that he wouldn’t miss Matty — but the feelings that Matty kindled inside of him were ones based on companionship. There was attraction and affection in spades, but being with Matty was soft.

It didn’t have the same sharp sting of connection that he craved, and the longer they went on, the more it became clear to Timmy that his needs tended towards things that were, not necessarily better for him, but that felt like _more_ , that maybe even scared him.

Dakota’s eyes insist on explanation so with a sigh he gives her a bit more, knowing her gaze stems only from a genuine concern for his well-being. “Matty and I knew from the start that we weren’t going to be anything serious. We had a million conversations about it.”

Timmy smiles fondly remembering all the times Matty would pull him aside or stop mid-fuck just to check in, to make sure they were seeing everything from the same perspective, always.

Dakota still looks slightly apprehensive, but there’s also something else behind her eyes that Timmy can’t pinpoint. “He’s in love with his music, D. Not me,” he says.

“And you?” Dakota asks so eagerly that it’s Timmy’s turn to give her a wide-eyed gape.

“I’m not in love with him, if that’s what you’re getting at. I told you, I’m fine.”

She stares at him, not disbelievingly, but funny all the same. Then she goes back to his hair, raking it away from his face, attention staunchly on the task at hand.

“Matty is great,” Timmy continues, perturbed by her sudden silence. “He just isn’t...I don’t know. It doesn’t feel the same.”

“As what?” she probes, her question hot on the heels of his lame attempt to explain himself.

His heart kicks against the front of his ribs. Timmy doesn’t say anything. Honestly, he doesn’t even want to think about it. After the way things went on tour, there’s no point breathing life into what he really covets, this isn’t The Secret.

Dakota tears through a tangle and he hisses. “Sorry,” she says, tone airy. “I bet Armie will be happy to hear that The 1975 are shipping back across the pond.”

He never could hide from her discerning blue eyes. Timmy prepares himself for the inevitable lecture, the ‘I told you so’ about hitching his wagon to Armie’s star even after her clear warning not to.

It doesn’t come. Instead he goes for a subject change and she allows it, her gaze gentle when she picks up the temporary hair paint and surveys her handiwork.

“How are you doing with everything?”

Dakota shakes the bottle, sticking her tongue out. “Ugh. I’m good.” She shields Timmy’s forehead with her hand and begins to spray him green. “It’s like a weight has been lifted.”

Timmy is glad, had been worried even though, when he thinks back, he’s never seen her suffer through a break up. “You and Chris weren’t even really together, were you?”

“Not really,” she shrugs, “it was more of a see-you-when-I-see-you thing. For me anyway.”

“You heartbreaker,” he teases, and a strange look ruffles through her features, there and gone. He opens his mouth to apologize but thinks better of it, not sure what caused it, his footing in their conversation feeling unbalanced, lost.

A few more adjustments and she pronounces him done, waving him off towards her full-length mirror to sign off on the final product.

Dakota was right. She fucking killed it. Timmy stares at himself and feels truly excited about tonight for the first time. He tests his long, red slash of a smile, opening and closing his mouth, eyebrows dancing underneath black paint. “I fucking love it,” he gushes, looking at Dakota’s reflection and then the real thing.

“I told you,” she grins, cleaning up the accoutrement that created his look.

“Now when do I get to see your costume?”

Her grin turns wicked. “You aren’t ready for it,” she says, but climbs down off her bed and pads over to the closet. Sliding open the door, she pulls out a long silk robe draped over a hanger. It is bright red and gleaming.

“What the fuuuck,” Timmy drawls, giddy, watching her flutter the fabric, bold and lively where she’d been strangely reserved before. He laughs.

The spirit of Halloween is officially under his skin

-

Timmy spends twenty minutes surfing youtube on Dakota’s tv for a playlist to put on. Nothing fits. Too camp or too obvious, or just a looped six-hour track of creaking doors and howling wolves. His fruitless search leads him to the great sacrifice of creating something himself.

While he goes through Timber Timbre’s hits and half a bowl of fun size candy, the party is born and grows around him. He finds himself having to turn up the volume, people filling into the main room and spilling out onto the patio for space.

By the time he’s put together a mix that is long and balanced, pretentiously moody without losing the old standards, Halloween is in full swing.

A zombie and her Iron Man are sat next to him on the couch, drinking from the black Solo cups Timmy also picked up during his trip to Party City.

“How’s the punch?” he asks, and their rave reviews are red-teethed and tongued. Timmy gets up then to see for himself.

On his way to the kitchen, he runs into Dev dressed like Where’s Waldo. He’s talking with the graphic artist who creates flyers for shows at The Peach Pit. Tilda? Tilly? She’s celebrating as Carmen San Diego. Their heads turn in unison when Timmy gets close.

“Killer costume,” Dev comments, smiling, clapping him with a handshake.

“You too. Both of you!”

Dev looks adorable in his knit cap and thick, plastic glasses. Belatedly, Timmy puts their costumes into context and wonders if they’re an item. But he doesn’t dwell on the idea because another, much more urgent thought pushes its way into his mind.

If Dev’s here, is Armie here?

It only takes Timmy one detoured loop around the house and backyard to come to terms with the fact that he isn’t.

Dejected, he wades towards the kitchen and ladles himself some punch. He takes a long drag of the sharp liquid, wiping the back of his hand across his lips and cursing when he realizes he’s already smudged away some of his makeup.

He spots Dakota cozied up with Matty and the rest of the 1975, and a few others, all of them crammed along the interior kitchen counters.

“There’s my pretty boy,” Matty coos, waving Timmy over to where he’s propped against the refrigerator, one hand flopped palm-up and holding a joint.

Timmy pulls a face, struck by his choice of pet name. “Don’t call me that,” he says, fitting himself obediently under Matty’s raised arm. He takes a sip of punch and when he pulls back the cup there is a red oval from his face paint smeared against the rim.

Saoirse and Greta are in another ‘makeup’ phase of their relationship, Greta sitting on a stool with Saoirse draped over her. He didn’t recognize them at first, dressed like old men, with pants cinched halfway up their ribs and grey bristley mustaches. Saoirse has wire spectacles and Greta has a straw hat and pipe.

They’re talking musical theory with Ross and Adam, everyone’s mouths stained pink by the punch. Timmy is content to hear them talk, Dakota’s conversation with Matty lacing into his ears as well.

The kitchen is a prime spot at any party. It is generally shielded from the more debaucherous activities and yet always full of people stopping in for refills or snacks. Timmy gets to say short hellos to everyone he knows at one point or another when they inevitably swing by.

While he’s draining his second cup of punch, the front room mutinies against his playlist and Anti-Flag starts blaring through the sound bar.

“Going to miss you,” Matty sighs wistfully. He’s already pulled down the bandana that’s tied around his neck and kisses the side of Timmy’s head, lips crunching against his tamed curls. Timmy turns for a proper kiss, because he wants one, because he’s going to miss Matty too.

Even if they aren’t destined to be big love in each other’s lives, all of the makings of it are still present.

Matty makes a happy sound, eyes going squinty with his smile.

“You look good,” he says, tugging on the edge of Timmy’s coat.

He simpers.

“You too. Even if your costume doesn’t make any sense.”

Matty jostles him, yanking on a limp, crispy curl. “Oi! You don’t make any sense.”

Timmy can’t argue there and they fall back into an easy silence, cherishing this last party in the company of one another with most of what needs to be said already out of the way. Matty’s arm is a welcome weight around his shoulder, and his smell inspires calm.

Timmy knows beyond a doubt that he is lucky, that he could be in a much darker place had he searched for solace anywhere else. And he knows he’s lucky in a simpler way too. People clamor for Matty’s attention, would probably main him without a thought to be in his place, to know what Matty looks like when there’s a mouth around his dick, or buried inside of him, a sweet nothing in his ear.

So Timmy soaks this in, grateful and glad, while also wanting something else.

Time passes quickly in their contemplative bubble.

Then someone enters the kitchen with a vintage camera on a tripod, one of its legs knocking against Timmy’s shin on the guy’s way over to Dakota.

“Madame Suspiriorum?” he shudders, and Timmy’s head snaps up. He knows that voice. His chest tightens when he shifts his gaze.

Dakota looks down her nose before bowing magnanimously, silk sleeves fluttering. “I am She.”

The guy--Armie’s roommate, Jack--bursts into a full grin, and bows his head. Dakota looks frighteningly pleased with herself when he takes her hand and kisses it.

“Peeping Tom, right?” Timmy asks, breaking them out of their moment. Jack turns towards him, recognition filling out his expression. “I forget the main character’s name.”

“Yes!” he crows, impressed. “Timmy! I knew you were cool. How are ya?”

Matty lets Timmy out from under his arm so that Jack can enthusiastically high five him, old camera rattling in his other hand. He’s wearing a big, tan coat and has his dark hair slicked into a side part. It still chafes him to know that Armie lives with someone as handsome as Jack.

“Good, I’m good. You?”

“Brilliant, yeah!”

Timmy goes red thinking about their last interaction, Timmy stuttering, holding a box of Armie’s crap, Jack friendly and disarming.

His slushy mind diverges down two paths then, the connections faulty thanks to the volume of mystery punch he’s been inhaling.

Timmy’s first thought is a worry, that Jack and Armie are something more than friends, because why wouldn’t they be? Timmy can’t imagine a world where anyone exists that doesn’t thirst for Armie.

His second thought is a worry as well, albeit a much more debilitating one.

If Jack’s here, there’s only one person he would have come with…

Anticipation sears through Timmy’s gut and he stumbles backwards, towards the mouth of the kitchen.

Dakota looks at Timmy, her hand hanging in the air, fingers curled towards the lapel of Jack’s coat. Jack’s big blue stare looks startled for him. Then recognition passes over his face, ever intuitive and she gives Timmy a smile. When Timmy checks, Matty’s fitted with one too. He nods at Timmy before closing up the circle of conversation so that he feels free to go.

Timmy’s fight or flight instinct is in full force. His body is practically pulsing with indecision, stung by impatience to either find Armie or leave.

And maybe he should go— deciding to attend this party was a mistake. Armie must be sick of him by now. Why wouldn’t he be?

And yet, like an addict, desperate and negotiating that everything would be fine if he could just have _one more taste_ , Timmy falters on his decision to retreat.

He feels strung out, like the scenes in the movies where the camera pans wildly around the room as he pushes through bodies and furniture, eyes darting helplessly to find the one thing, the one person he’s looking for: his fix.

Timmy does a double take when his eyes land, even though it couldn’t be anyone else, a head taller than the mean of the party. There he is, talking with Dev.

Armie is hanging out near the door in a grouping of people. It takes Timmy a few blinks to process anything beyond his lazy smile, the color of his skin, the broad frame of his shoulders.

Armie is dressed in a mismatched suit, a white collared shirt wrinkled beneath a dark jacket and vest. There is a silver star pinned to his chest and a red cravat tied around his throat.

He’s also wearing a thick black mask, not unlike that of a robber, and Timmy’s guts wring themselves out. He thinks about how Armie wouldn’t have to steal from him, how Timmy would give him _anything_ if he’d only just ask for it.

Once he’s seen Armie, he doesn’t even feel like he’s walking over, more like pulled in by a tractor beam. Armie’s gaze, shaded by the mask, only lands on him when the person standing next to Dev has to move out of his way. The first expression to pass through his features is an unguarded smirk. Any nuance to it is hidden.

“A fancy criminal?” Timmy guesses, and Armie’s smirk peels into a white, toothy grin.

He lifts his arm, brandishing a white cowboy hat. “The Lone Ranger,” he says, and drops the hat loosely onto Timmy’s head. “Nice face.”

Timmy’s cheeks burn under the white paint, even though he’s sure Armie is just referring to his makeup. “Er, thanks. I saw your roommate in the kitchen.”

Armie shakes his head, still grinning. “What a maniac. He insisted on bringing the camera.” He pauses to take a sip of his drink. A beer, not the punch giving everyone else kool-aid mustaches. “I told him, even with it, that that nobody was going to know who the fuck he’s supposed to be.”

“I knew,” Timmy beams, makeup cracking under the breadth of his smile.

Armie laughs loudly. “No shit? Wow. What a nerd. Next time he wants to watch some _iconic_ film from 1950 maybe I’ll point him in your direction.”

Timmy joins in his laughter, blood singing at these barest pleasantries. “You could use some culture,” he teases and Armie feigns offense, slapping a hand over his heart.

“How dare you,” he crows, flicks the tip of the white hat he put on Timmy’s head, knocking it off. Armie leans over and catches it mid-back, flourishing his reflexes.

“Sorry,” Timmy apologizes for no reason but Armie doesn’t acknowledge it, just flops the hat back over his buzzed head and looks even bigger than he already is.

Timmy can’t help it and he snorts a laugh that he fails to hold in. “I can’t believe you dressed up. I had no idea you were so enthusiastic about Halloween.”

Armie looks miserable but his eyes flash with something like amusement. Maybe just radical acceptance. He lets out a sigh between his teeth. “I owed Dakota.”

“For what?”

Something passes between them and Armie shakes his head. He doesn’t answer and his expression tells Timmy not to ask.

Awkward tension battles its way between them but Timmy pushes back, not allowing it to ruin these few minutes of normalcy.

He slides his phone from his pocket, opens the camera app, and asks with a bashful but determined smile. “Please? This shit needs to be documented.”

“Goddamnit,” Armie laughs but he poses anyway, taking a swig from his beer and flipping the camera off while the flash flares around them. “You post that anywhere and I’ll —”

Timmy bites down on his lip, nervous. The alcohol in his bloodstream leads him towards boldness “You’ll what?”

Armie just meets his gaze over another swig of beer and silence finally wins. A thick uncertainty crashes over them.

Timmy looks around, realizes that Dev and the other people Armie had been talking to are gone. He feels bad. “I didn’t mean to take you away from your friends,” he says, sounding more despondent than he’d like. This is something that worried him about coming tonight. Monopolizing Armie, or his friends. Suddenly, he’s sure in the way, “I’m just gonna…”

Armie shrugs, pulling down another mouthful of PBR. “Don’t worry about it.”

But it’s too late, reality has besotted the lightness of their conversation and Timmy can’t deal with it, especially not with Armie looming. He shakes his head, green hair blurring the edges of his vision.

“I’ll see you around,” Timmy sways, half-hoping Armie will ask him not to leave but he’s not surprised when all he gets is a coded stare.

He slides into another room and loses track of time in an attempt to integrate back into the party.

Timmy tries to enjoy himself, he really does. But his attention is with Armie, who swims through the party like a shark, huge and silent, drifting between cliques. Girls trail him like pilot fish, inevitably falling away from his current when he doesn’t stop and chat with them. Timmy can’t help but feel satisfied with their failure to capture him. The only people pulling Armie’s gaze for more than a civil hello are Jack and his band.

And every once in awhile, Armie’s chin will go up, face turning until he locks eyes with Timmy. Each time that happens Timmy feels like he’s been hooked somewhere just behind his navel, an invisible force reeling him in, needing to close the distance. But before his eroding resolve can fail, Armie’s eyes are gone, obscured or purposely removed, leaving Timmy to tumble in the wake of his attention.

A Ramona Flowers chatting to a Quailman turns to Timmy at some point, telling him she loves his costume, wanting to discuss whether or not Nolan’s trilogy is a triumph as a whole, or just his second act. On any other night, Timmy would deep dive the subject with her, but tonight he can’t muster more than a waifish argument for the trilogy as a whole. He’s a shitty partner for conversation.

The night becomes a coalescence of pop culture and cliché costumes; Lady Gaga in her meat dress chatting with Carrie. Somewhere in the distance, Han Solo gets into a fight with a dude in a skeleton unitard. A young woman in cat ears and a tutu holds back zombie Kim Kardashian’s hair while she throws up into a planter outside. Dakota is going to be pissed.

Timmy makes as much small talk as he can stomach with stupidly-dressed strangers until he inevitably ends up back in his comfort zone.

He hovers around the 1975, talking with George and Matty out back, the three of them sat together on a splintery old bench that Dakota spray-painted bright pink at the beginning of the summer. Timmy digs his sneaker into the rocks, rolling one out of place with his toe, red into white.

Armie is not ten feet away with Jack. They’re leaning against the outside wall of the house and sharing a smoke. Timmy can’t hear much of what they’re saying over the noise of the party, but they both look happy, chattering on about who knows what, each making the other laugh and passing along the wasting cigarette, indirect kisses making Timmy squirm.

He blushes green with envy, only half-hearing George’s thoughts on sound mixing, distracted, looking at Jack. He’s absently touching Armie, nudging him with the back of his hand, shaking him by the shoulder, face breaking with a boisterous laugh at something he’s said.

For one sliver of time, Timmy had that. He can’t fathom how many bells he would have to unring now to have it again.

“Beer pong?” George asks, clearly realizing that Timmy isn’t capable of having an active role in their conversation. Timmy can’t find it within himself to feel bad about it.

Matty nudges him and Timmy forces some life into his response. “Dude, no. I’m terrible. But I can headhunt for you. Saoirse is a beast.”

“Sure,” George says.

Timmy disengages from the bench with a goodbye, a rotten shard of wood catching on his pants.

He has to pass by Armie and Jack to get back inside. Their conversation filters in as he gets closer. He keeps his head down to seem indifferent to their goings on.

“Your pals need some fucking culture.”

“Ha, that’s what Timmy said. And hey, he recognized your costume.”

Jack nods. “True. You really fucked up there.” His face dawns with recognition as Timmy goes by, retreating inside before he’s able to hear Armie’s retort.

He finds Saoirse still in the kitchen, snacking on chocolate cupcakes with orange frosting that somebody must have brought over. There is also a plate of rice krispy squares and Timmy shoves one into his mouth, speaking around it to inform everyone of the game starting outside.

He hooks Saoirse and Greta, no surprise, but it takes fifteen minutes to get them pried off of their countertop perches. Then, refilling on punch, Timmy leads them back outside.

He passes Armie again and this time their eyes catch. He’s back inside now and Dakota’s arms are wrapped around his neck. When they separate, she looks like she’s crying and Timmy moves to check up on her but she shakes her head and smiles, quickly wiping down her face. She mouths _I’m fine!_ as Timmy’s being ushered out back.

Naturally, George and Matty stand at one end of the long, narrow foldable table while Greta and Saoirse walk to the other. George has already racked the cups for both teams and volunteers to drink all of Matty’s turns. Timmy helps them crack and pour four PBRs evenly amongst the two pyramids.

One of the ping pong balls is missing. Ten people whip out the flashlights on their phone and it is found under a shrub less than three minutes later. Teamwork.

Timmy watches the game, and what’s happening inside through the closed sliding glass door too. Armie and Dakota are still talking, Dakota looking glassy-eyed but content with her head tipped against his shoulder. He has a light arm around her lower back. Both of their faces are turned listening to Jack.

Timmy’s heart drags. He wants to go inside and be with them. He has a constant awareness of Armie when they are in the same vicinity, part of him always tuned to his frequency. It doesn’t feel good, being in the same place but apart. It was one of the very worst aspects of their week on tour.

The ball sails by his ear and Timmy pulls his gaze away, chases its wayward bounce across the concrete. Once he’s caught it, Matty opens his hand into a claw for Timmy to drop it in.

“Cheers!” he grins, going right back to the game.

Saoirse and Greta win by a landslide. George and Matty don’t even get through enough cups for a re-rack. Their celebration is not sportsmanlike in the least, but everyone’s laughing. George pours all of the remaining cups into a 7-11 Big Gulp cup to nurse from while another team sets up to challenge the winners.

Somewhere else outside, a cluster of people scream. Their jumbo Jenga tower smashes apart on the ground.

Timmy has consumed, and lost, at least four cups of Dakota’s toxic punch. They are piled on every surface, one with his name scribbled onto the sides, but the rest of them blank. His carbon footprint grows with his blood alcohol concentration, and he really needs to fucking pee.

He ends up fighting his way through the beaded curtain that separates the front room from the hall, tiny skulls getting tangled in his hair. Timmy’s fingers are clumsy but he manages to extricate them without snapping loose an entire chain and pushes back-first into the bathroom.

Somebody is already peeing. “Shit, sorry,” he yelps, scrabbling for the door handle to let himself back out.

Armie’s voice is a low rumble of amusement. “You know, one of these days you’re going to walk in here and find me taking a shit.”

Timmy laughs, covering his face before remembering it’s painted. His palms come away smudged white and pink. “Maybe that’s what I want,” he barbs, stealing a look towards the toilet. All he can see is Armie’s back, shoulders straining against his vest, his ass looking incredible in dark brown pants. His hat is missing but the straps of his mask are still tied at the back of his head. Timmy’s fingers twitch from the desire to pull at the strings, unravel them.

Armie turns his head, meeting Timmy’s gaze over his shoulder, zipping up. He deadpans, “You wanna give me a blumpkin?” and Timmy sputters, bent double.

He waves his hands in a frantic X. And laughs. “Fuuuck, _Enough._ You’re so gross.”

“Says the piss pervert,” Armie parries, his mouth twisting into a sideways grin. “And I thought Jack was the only Peeping Tom here.” He flushes the toilet and turns completely around, and Timmy isn’t prepared for how his costume has been deconstructed -- his shirt under the vest has been half-unbuttoned and his cravat is now twisted into more of a necklace, leaving his throat open and exposed, chest hair curling between the gaps of fabric. The jacket is gone.

Timmy loves the distinctive features of Armie's face in its entirety; the piercing blue of his eyes, the keen edge of his forehead, fraught eyebrows, and a jawline that makes him ache, but with the mask disconnecting his face, breaking apart his details into individual displays of art, Timmy can't stop staring at his mouth. It’s accentuated by the mask, soft lips stark against the scrape of two-day stubble. Timmy can’t help ruminating on what ailments might be cured could he just roll Armie’s thick bottom lip between his teeth one more time.

“Piss pervert,” Timmy mocks, a chuckle of amusement echoing out of his chest. “You’re the one that never locks the door.” Armie shrugs, lifting his eyebrows as if to say, _Fair point,_ but the air between them drifts into another bout of strange quiet.

Their conversations always feel balanced on a knife’s edge these days, and Timmy is terrified that one of them will slip and cut themselves.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“I really have to pee,” isn’t exactly inspired, but it is accurate.

Armie edges around him to wash his hands. “No shit," he huffs, dipping his hands under the water, patting them dry on a pumpkin-colored hand towel after a few lazy seconds.

Timmy brushes past him, fingers eager to unzip. He feels Armie's lingering presence by the door but doesn't question it while he situates himself, too preoccupied with relieving himself to wonder why Armie would stay in the bathroom.

At last, he breaks the seal, shoving everything back where it belongs when he's done. Armie is leaning against the sink when he turns around, his profile facing forward, expression unreadable because of the mask and because, well, it's Armie.

His head turns to look at Timmy when he comes up to the sink, only shifting over just enough for Timmy to wash his hands without disruption. They share wordless glances until Timmy's hands are clean.

The air feels so thick that Timmy thinks he might start sweating.

"Who's the piss pervert now," he teases awkwardly, too afraid to directly address why Armie is still here. Armie doesn't respond, just stands to full height and Timmy looks up, worried he's said something wrong.

His green eyes question everything; what happened between them, what went wrong, what went right, weighing whether he should shut up and leave or risk opening his mouth in the likelihood it just makes things worse. Mostly, his eyes beg to know why Armie is looking at him like that.

"I wanted to talk to you," Armie starts, his voice soft but direct, demanding Timmy’s attention.

The earth shifts under Timmy’s feet. He remembers again the sting of Armie’s words at the hotel, and instinctively prepares for Armie to tell yell at him again--to tell Timmy to fuck off, leave the party, and find his own group of friends.

For Armie to admit just how sick of him he is.

Timmy starts apologizing before he has the chance to. “Fuck, Armie. I’m sorry, okay? I know--”

“Shut up.” Armie cuts him off, but his voice isn’t harsh. He reaches out and covers Timmy’s mouth with his hand, his entire palm taking over the bottom half of his face. Timmy’s given up on trying to keep his Joker makeup presentable. He knows what a mess he must look like by now. “You apologize too much,” Armie tells him.

“I’m sorry,” he exhales when Armie pulls his hand away. They both smile. There are a million words shuffling through his mind, scattered by a fervent heart that Armie can no doubt hear punching out against Timmy’s chest.

Armie said that he wants to talk but he’s still just standing there, silent, intimidating, _beautiful._

Cortisol flows into Timmy’s bloodstream. He can’t think of a time that he’s been more scared, knows that this is his only chance to clear the air before Armie extricates him from his world forever. He grasps words out of the air, linking them together like magnetic poetry pieces, frantic to say _something_ before the moment dissolves.

“Everything is so fucked between us, Armie,” Timmy mumbles. “What you said at the hotel -- I just, _god._ You were right.” His shoulders fall, his chin following. He feels the weight of everything that’s happened between them finally crushing him down into the linoleum. Timmy can feel his own chin rippling from the fight against the sudden tears welling in his throat.

Even with their history stretched out in his mind, Timmy doesn’t regret Armie, or them, and he can’t stand the thought that Armie does. “You--you don’t hate me, right?” he asks, the words barely a whisper. If this is all he’s allowed, then it will be enough. So long as he can go on into an Armie-less future with the knowledge that it meant something, once, to the both of them.

He can’t look Armie in those frightening blue eyes, especially shadowed by the mask, so Timmy focuses on his mouth instead.

It doesn’t help.

Armie breathes like what he’s said is funny. “Hate you?” he staggers. “Christ, Timmy. I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

Time stops.

Timmy blinks in slow motion, the only defense he has time for before Armie’s resigned, stripped down confession slams into him at full force, stealing his air, making him gasp.

“ _What?_ ” he gawks, reeling. All of the blood in his body rushes to his head, the sound of it deafening, storming upwards, filling his ears. Armie’s words become a distorted echo in his mind. He replays it, their eyes meeting, every muscle in Timmy’s body tensed, but for what?

“You heard me.”

Timmy shudders. Then, regaining a modicum of control over himself, he lifts his hands, slowly at first, in case Armie decides to bail. He doesn’t, just stoically watching Timmy’s face as he reaches around the back of Armie’s head to unravel the knot that’s been holding his mask on. “I need to see your face,” Timmy explains. His voice and hands are shaking.

It takes him a minute to get the bow untied, but it finally comes apart into two pieces of thick black cord and he eases off the mask, feasting on Armie’s face as it is revealed to him. Timmy is still so acutely affected by it, despite having felt that face pressed right against his throat while fucking into him.

Armie’s beauty does not have diminishing returns. It pillages what remains of Timmy’s good sense each and every time he sees him.

Proximity ignites a familiarity between their bodies. He’s holding the mask between two fingers but their chests are close, would touch if their breathing was in sync. He can feel the heat from Armie’s skin against his knuckles, his hand opening automatically to curve around the side of Armie’s throat.

Timmy licks over his lips and when Armie does the same, he initially writes it off as a contagious human tick, like yawning, but when Armie sighs against his touch, Timmy knows better.

He’s never fought against anything harder than the urgent, blinding need to kiss him, to crash against Armie and remind him why, despite all reason, they keep ending up here. But he can’t risk doing this in the wrong order, not again. Not after what Armie just said.

Timmy lays the mask on the sink counter, the same edge where he remembers watching Armie cut them up lines what feels like a lifetime ago. “Matty’s leaving,” he says and if Armie is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “I mean, even if he wasn’t...it wouldn’t matter.”

Armie’s chest swells with his slow breathing. His eyes are recording everything, their blue clear, and soft, and trained on Timmy, rapt with what he’s struggling to say.

Timmy shakes his head, trying to rattle the thousands of words in his mind in a desperate hope that they’ll align into at least one coherent sentence. He has battled months of ever-growing feelings for Armie but never really thought he’d be given a chance to liberate them from where they’ve remained trapped inside his body.

“Just…” He clenches his fists, frustrated at his lack of grace under fire, hums in frustration. “I don’t want him. I don’t want--nobody’s _you._ And that’s what I want.” Timmy places a flat palm against Armie’s chest, staring at his own fingers in disbelief. “You,” he repeats, just in case he never gets another chance, holding Armie’s gaze, willing him to understand.

Armie’s brow that had been pulled tight suddenly softens, though he is still painfully silent. Timmy watches the corners of his lips tick upward just enough to make the lines of his eyes crinkle.

He reaches out, tucking a rogue green curl away from Timmy’s cheekbone.

Timmy stares, wide-eyed and mouth agape. He is dangerously close to vibrating through the floor. “You really, like actually, love me?”

Armie doesn’t seem to want to but he nods, his mouth pressed into a small smile and then, Timmy taking an uneven breath, Armie’s mouth is pressed to his.

Any hesitation between them collapses, the space snuffed out by Timmy’s arms around Armie’s neck, stood on his tiptoes to seal them together. Armie’s hands snap to his waist, squeezing, pulling him in. His palms are splayed out over Timmy’s untucked shirt, the jacket ditched over an hour ago.

Armie makes a sound, profound and bone-rattling, and surges into the kiss. It reverberates against Timmy and his jaw opens, Armie’s tongue slipping in to meet his over the crest of his bottom lip.

Armie tastes like beer, cheap Halloween makeup, and an undeniable spice that is strictly him.

“I missed you,” Timmy mutters between chaste breaks in their reunion. Armies hands have found parts of his body that he must have missed because he’s holding on to Timmy like a starved man finally being allowed a meal. “Shit—Armie,” he whimpers, his heart palpitating when Armie moves him back against the sink, lifting him just enough so that he can sit on the porcelain and lock his ankles around the back of his knees.

It just falls out of him, destiny sprouting a new timeline in this moment.

“I love you,” Timmy says on a drawn out exhale, his eyes closed and Armie marking up a sensitive spot under his ear. His palm smoothes out over the back of Armie’s skull, reveling in the tickle of his buzzcut. Something else he’s missed.

“Yeah?” Armie whispers, pulling back only so far as to allow their eyes to meet, their mouths still pushing hot, frantic breath at one another. The bottom half of Armie’s face is completely pink from Timmy’s makeup. It thrills him, that he’s the one making him look _like that_ , breathe _like that_.

He nods, leaning in to drag his nose against Armie’s chin until he can whisper, “yeah,” flush against his mouth.

Happiness metastasizes in his lungs, fed with Armie’s breath. The alternate ending of his life fades to black, replaced with the correct conclusion.

Falling in love with Armie was an inevitability. Everything between them has been, and Timmy’s admission makes accepting whatever happens next terrifying.

The short pause from kissing makes them all too aware of the pounding at the bathroom door but when Armie yells for whoever it is to fuck off, the door bursts open. The person--someone Timmy doesn’t recognize--hesitates when they see all of Armie, swallowing when they drunkenly connect the dots from him to Timmy on the sink. Timmy blushes and slides down.

“You guys are fucking bathroom terrorists. Come on,” the guy dances. “This is a party, people are drinking. I gotta take a leak.”

Armie’s expression shuts down and he steps out to half-hide Timmy behind him, always prepared for a fight.

The guy in the doorway wilts, eyes jumping from Armie’s face to Timmy’s.

Instant regret.

Timmy laughs, clamping a hand around Armie’s forearm and scooching out to put himself between the two. “Our bad,” he says, stressing that the fault lies with them, “it’s all yours.”

He leads Armie out into the crowded hall. None of the faces in the immediate vicinity are familiar. His grip melts away, but Armie catches his fingers on the descent, lacing them together for just a second before letting go.

Timmy swoons like a romantic comedy star, head over heels all over again. “Can we go somewhere?” he asks quietly, body thrumming loudly, _wanting_.

Armie is looking at him and nowhere else, uncaring as to whether or not they’ve been noticed together. He is quiet for a long second, talking himself in or out of his decision. He frowns. “I can’t. It’s already, shit, one A.M and I can’t miss work for the next millennia because of all the time I took off for tour.”

“Oh okay.” Timmy tries not to sound let down.

“But I want to see you.” Armie tips his chin up with a finger. “This weekend?” He kisses him again, mask hanging by its strings in his other hand.

“Your face…” Timmy giggles when Armie pulls away, eyes lifting open, the blue eaten black.

Armie wipes at his mouth with his arm, the white material coming away stained. “Um, _your face_ ,” He counters, pulling out his phone to take a picture. He turns it to show Timmy, who zooms in, cackling at what a hot mess he is. But his expression, it’s so light, lighter than he’s seen in months.

“Don’t delete that.”

“Don’t worry.” Armie pockets the phone. “I better find Jack.”

Timmy swallows down a lump of fear. He’s afraid for this moment to end, that it could all just be a lapse in judgement, that he will wake up with them back to square one again. “Okay,” he sighs, but when Armie starts threading through the hall towards the front of the house, Timmy’s feet haven’t moved.

Armie looks back after a yard or so, a question in his eyes. He doubles back. “What is it? I told you, I have to go. We’ll do something this weekend.”

“I know.” Timmy’s worry must be plain to see because Armie puts a hand around the back of his neck and brings him into a long, lingering kiss.

“I meant what I said,” he says seriously, gaze shifting from eye to eye, checking to see that Timmy believes him.

He wants to, wetting his mouth, chasing the taste of Armie’s lips, already missing them. “Me too.”

Armie strokes the hinge of his jaw with his thumb before stepping back again, his stare focused as if he’s taking a mental picture of Timmy looking a mess, for him, in the hall. Then he turns and calls for Jack.

Timmy doesn’t see him out. He trusts that they will talk again and makes his way in another direction, looking for Matty, walking on air.

-

Matty is smoking a cigarette with a circle of people outside on the patio. Timmy hangs back, standing on the top step as he watches from a distance. Matty’s recounting some wild exploit that happened when he was still on drugs, on tour in Europe at one of those festivals where everyone ends up covered in mud.

Timmy smiles when their eyes catch and Matty’s nods his chin, waving the crowd off before pushing through to Timmy’s side.

“Where’d you run off to, love?” Matty reaches out to wrap an arm around his waist and Timmy is slammed with a strange sensation. It isn’t guilt but the finality of what was between them; he’s grateful but knows that it’s through.

“Look at the state of you,” Matty laughs, motioning a hand over Timmy’s face.

“Yeah…” Timmy lifts a hand to touch his mouth, unable to stop the smile that spreads from ear to ear. He doesn’t need the exaggerated stretch of the Joker’s grin anymore. He wears his own. He licks over his lips, tastes the paint and what remains of Armie. “Can we talk? Maybe, I don’t know--not here.”

Matty leads him by the hand out the wooden gate at the side of the house. There’s a small pathway that leads to the bottom of the driveway and they hold hands until they’re both sat on the curb. Timmy stretches out his legs, Matty doing the same. They’re almost the same length, Matty’s boots tapping against the dirty heel of Timmy's Converse.

“Well, out with it then, Chalamet. I’m ready for you to break my heart.” Matty nudges him and even though he’s smiling softly, eyes curved in amusement, Timmy looks at him horrified. Matty chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m only joking.”

Timmy laughs too, the sound tinged with bitter relief. They had discussed this, so there was no reason to feel nervous or ashamed, but he was never good at breaking up--leaving Ansel via text message could attest to that.

Ansel to Armie to Matty to Armie is a journey that puts him into a terrible light, but Timmy can only focus on the destination right now. And the fact that his heart is missing from his chest, miles away by now, with Armie.

Timmy searches for the right words. He fidgets with his hands, runs his fingers down the stripes of his thighs. He huffs a few soft breaths before Matty mercifully intervenes.

“Have you managed to chat with Armie about what happened in San Diego?” He asks while staring at Timmy’s mouth, obviously only asking to be polite. He must know they did more than _chat._

“Armie said he’s —” Timmy almost says it, but realizes he wants to keep it to himself, wants Armie’s confession to belong only to him for as long as possible. “I think we might try to figure it out.”

Matty looks him over for a long while, reaching out to stroke his hair, caress a hand down his arm. He leans in to rest his head against Timmy’s shoulder for just a moment then pulls back. “I’m very happy for you, T. You deserve that, at the very least.”

They’ve talked about it more than once, how Timmy feared that he was in love with Armie, how impossible it felt. He’d asked Matty if he’d ever felt that way, needing to know how long exactly it would take for the feeling to fade if it was doomed to live in the dark of his chest, alone. And Matty, bless him, was nothing if not sympathetic. He’d regaled Timmy with tales of lost love, of the unimaginable pain he felt when a girl named Gabby broke his heart by telling him she’d had enough.

They spent hours and hours on Timmy’s mangled heart and to think that Matty can still find it within him to root for them is nothing short of saintly.

Timmy doesn’t know how to convey the magnitude of his gratitude. He simply nods, letting out a long exhale.

“Armie’s a lucky bloke.” Matty leans back, palms flat against the sidewalk. “It was nice of him to let me have you, even for a short while.” He doesn’t look sad, but his eyebrows are pulled tight with concern. Timmy knows that Matty only has his best interest in mind and when he asks, “Do you really think he’s managed to pull that thick skull of his out of his arse?” It isn’t a question born out of spite or jealousy, but sincerity for the well-being of his heart.

Timmy laughs, shrugging a shoulder. “Is it bad if I say I don’t care, one way or another? I still want to try.”

Matty laughs and shakes his head, his curls skirting his chin. “It’s not bad if he’s worth it.”

Timmy nods again, but doesn’t speak. They sit in silence, comfortable and bittersweet. Matty lights a cigarette and they pass it back and forth until it’s dead and Matty crushes the butt with the tip of his boot. He stands up and offers an arm out to help Timmy up.

They hug for a solid minute, arms locked around each other’s backs. Timmy thinks about how his months with Matty will smell like menthol cigarettes and late-night take out after spending too much time outdoors talking about the meaning of life and the downfalls of modern society. He knows his stomach would ache with sadness if he didn’t know that the possibility of a world of experiences with Armie might be finally within reach.

“You coming back inside?” Matty asks, taking a step up the curb to head back into the party.

“I don’t think so,” he mutters, realizing that he has no interest in being anywhere Armie isn’t right now. He’d rather go home. “I think I’m going to call an Uber and head back to my place.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and does exactly that. When he looks up, Matty is still lingering. “Will you tell Dakota I headed home? I’ll text her tomorrow.”

Matty nods, huddling into his leather jacket. The wind has picked up. Autumn is here. “See you around, Timothée Chalamet.”

-

Timmy watches the water drain from his shower, tendrils of green dye and red-now-pink makeup clinging to the ceramic tiles. It’ll probably stain for a while but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to forget tonight.

He brushes his teeth, puts on a pair of sweats, and rolls himself into his unmade bed, flopping face first into his pillows, dazed. The world above him is still spinning from the alcohol in his bloodstream, the high he feels reinforced by each passing revival of the events in Dakota’s bathroom.

Timmy pushes over to hang halfway off the bed so that he can grab for his phone, still pocketed in the pants he’d discarded on the way to the shower. He plans to plug it in to charge but winds up staring at the time on the screen instead.

It’s past 3 in the morning and no doubt Armie is already home, asleep. Timmy loses another ten minutes thinking about being back in Armie’s room, rewriting their first time together, or making up for it anyway.

An amalgamation of every shitty moment between them is dragged to the forefront of his mind. It has to mean something, he thinks, for them to fall apart so many times only to end up right back in front of each other.

Armie has given their relapses a reason: love.

Timmy knows love well, has loved so many people in his life. Falling in love was easy for him--but nothing he felt with Armie was easy, except for the fact that Timmy would gladly choose it in all of its messiness over other--some might even say _better_ \--options.

Timmy’s fingers pull up his contact list and he traces out every letter before pressing call. It rings three times before there’s an answer.

“Timmy?” Armie’s voice is more of a muffled grunt than anything. “You okay?”

Timmy audibly sighs, rolling over from his stomach to his back. “I’m home. In bed.” He looks over at the empty space next to him. “Alone,” he adds, just in case.

“Oh.”

“You were asleep.” Timmy wonders how sleeping will be possible tonight and smiles, thinking of Armie dozing against his pillow. He wonders if he’ll ever get to share it with him again; hope tells him yes. “Were you dreaming?”

“Yeah,” Armie responds, his voice a faraway drawl, already on the verge of falling back under. “I think so.”

Timmy nods, but keeps silent for a moment. He listens to Armie’s shallow breathing, thinking of letting him go before a passing curiosity wanders out of his mouth, “Maybe you’re dreaming you’re in love with me.”

“Fuck.” Armie’s chuckle is warm enough to last him a lifetime. Timmy bites his knuckles, cheeks appled against his eyes in a hazy grin. Armie is smiling through the phone when he speaks again. “I wish.”

Timmy could squeal, giddy and delirious and fucking bursting with affection--no, _love_. He isn’t afraid to name it anymore.

“Good,” he huffs, letting Armie hear his happiness, not wanting to temper his mood around Armie ever again.

Everything will need to be out in the open from now on, which is definitely going to be more of a process for one of them. Timmy can already make out the shapes of future fights, but they will talk about it all tomorrow, how they’re going to move forward, what tonight’s drunken declaration in the bathroom will mean in the sober light of day.

For now, Timmy just keeps talking, Armie piping in every once in a while, floating just above the surface of sleep.

Eventually, the sound of their voices fade until there’s nothing but rhythmic breathing. Timmy thinks he hears Armie wish him goodnight, so he does the same, and falls under into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

****

-

so what about these feelings i’ve got?  
we got it wrong and you said you had enough  
but what about these feelings i’ve got?  
i couldn’t be more in love 


	10. it’s not living if it’s not with you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO much to everyone who took time out of their days to read this fic, to kudos it, to leave comments, everything. this has been, just, a reallyreally rewarding experience to work on MYD together and see so many people enjoy it. fuck, you’re all amazing. 
> 
> we are sad that we’ve reached the finish line, but maybe after a little downtime we will revisit these kids to see what they’re up to. 
> 
> big love,  
> oyb & cpx

 

“Fuck. Pause, hold on.” Dev’s bass makes a discordant sound as his fingers slip. He hurries over to the trash in the corner, holding the instrument behind his back, and hurls into the metal can.

Armie laughs, cupping his mouth to project. “Go for distance!”

“Seriously?”

Dakota grumbles lowly into the microphone, hair thrown into a messy bun, but her eyes are creased with amusement. She shakes her head and walks over to pat Dev on the back where he’s hunched and retching up whatever he gambled on for dinner. “We’re less than an hour into practice. Are you going to make it?”

“I’m still fucking hungover.” Dev sounds on the brink of death. His voice echoes from inside the trash. “Who throws a party on a Thursday?”

Armie is still laughing sat at his kit. He stretches both arms over his head, cracking his neck. Having band practice the day after her Halloween party wasn’t a popular idea, but Dakota is a ball buster.

“No one made you take all those vodka Jell-O shots,” she chastises, even as she’s soothing his hair back, away from his face.

Armie stands up and walks out from behind his drum set, deciding for the group that practice is over, or at least on hold. He lights a cigarette and walks closer to his bandmates. “Yeah, Dev. You were throwing them back like a freshly dumped sorority girl,” he states with with a sharky smile, aiming his exhale at a cracked window.

“Fuck the both of you,” Dev barely manages to mumble before another round of regret hits the bottom of the can. Armie waits patiently until he’s done then offers him a beer, getting only a spiteful belly slap in response.

“Ow. You dick.”

“Alright, well since Dev’s being a little bitch --” Dakota sighs, straightening back up. She’s chewing into her lip, considering for a moment before she walks over to start turning shit off and unplugging equipment. “I don’t actually care about practice today. I just wanted you both here so I could share some news.”

“Is it a boy?” Armie asks wryly, and she whips him with an orange extension cord.

These are the people he’s spent over a decade with. Monsters, the pair of them.

“Keep talking shit,” she threatens happily, propping herself against the edge of a table. Dev is haunting the space next to her, tasting his mouth and making pitiful faces.

“So?”

“We got a DM this morning from Luca Guadagnino.”

“Luca Gua--of Luca Records? That Luca?” Dev balks, his accent stressing the absurdity of her claim.

Dakota’s face lights up, eyebrows jumping up to her hairline. “Yeah, it’s from his account anyway. He must’ve sent a lackey to one of the 1975 shows or something. Anyway, he wants to set up a meeting to discuss representation.”

“I think I’m going to be sick again,” Dev says weakly, but he’s smiling now.

Armie is pretending that his pulse hasn’t stumbled and sped at the idea of DLID getting a record deal with one of the top indie labels in Los Angeles. “Are you fucking with us?”

Dakota can’t contain herself any longer. “I’m really not,” she breathes, shaking her head before exploding away from the table to leap at Armie. She rings him around the neck, bouncing against him. Dev reaches out to place his arms on their shoulders, too hungover to fully join in.

When they’ve spent their initial excitement, they separate, Armie gulping down the rest of his beer, still stunned. “When is the meeting?”

“Next Wednesday at noon. You’re going to have to ask for the time off work.”

Armie barks out another laugh, wheezing. “Fuck me…”

“Just quit,” Dev suggests helpfully, kneeling next to his bass bag, zipping up to leave.

“Ha ha. We aren’t millionaires yet.”

They both throw him pointed stares that Armie shrugs off. “I’m not my parents,” he grouses, waltzing over to Dev and throwing the bass over his shoulder to carry for him. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Luca bloody Records,” Dev marvels on the way outside, one hand pressed to his forehead in disbelief.

“It’s crazy,” Armie commiserates, still trying to sort out how he’s really feeling. Thrilled, obviously. But there’s more to it than that. Music was something that he was always going to do. Alone or with friends, in garages or at cafes or crappy punk clubs. The idea that it could ever be a viable career path didn’t really enter his mind. But now that it has, he’s unnerved by how badly he wants it.

And to think, it’s essentially thanks to Matty, been made possible by the exposure they received from the 1975.

Armie’s heart stammers to the thought of Timmy then, a sudden unfamiliar rush of impatient excitement over the desire to tell him the news. The itch to pull his phone out and call is overwhelming. He can hear Timmy’s smile but Dev unlocks his car and pulls Armie’s focus back.

He packs Dev’s bass into his backseat and shuts the door. The stand together under a dodgy tilted lamppost, moths plinking against the cracked diffuser overhead, the fall breeze cold against the small beaded collection of sweat still matted to his hairline and bare back. He’s shirtless despite the weather because drumming in clothing is a nightmare. They could be playing the North Pole and he’d still be sweating bullets.

“Thanks, mate. Be good,” Dev tells him, reaching in for a careful hug.

“You too. Gym Sunday maybe?”

Dev hauls open his car door and climbs inside. “If I’m not dead, sure.”

They say goodbye and Armie heads back in. Dakota is pulling up the message from Luca to prove that it really happened. He fits another cigarette between his lips and comes over to look, lighter clicking on.

It’s there in living color. A text conversation between Dakota from their band instagram, and Luca Guadagnino.

Armie whistles, scrunching her bun. “That’s wild.”

“Right,” she grins, putting her phone away again.

They share a quiet moment of contemplation before the adrenaline sets in. Once more Timmy comes to mind and Armie realizes that he doesn’t need to suppress his presence in his mind anymore. It’s liberating, and terrifying.

“So.” Armie watches through the gridded window as Dev’s headlights go on and his car starts up. “Dev’s hangover aside, your party was a big success.”

She thinks about it for a second, then shrugs. “Yeah. Nothing got broken this year.”

Armie sucks a long drag from his cigarette, eyeing her. “And you finally met Jack.”

Dakota spins away from his gaze, sweeping wisps of hair out of her face when she leans down to retrieve a beer from their cooler. “He’s cute,” she admits breezily, closing the lid and sitting down.

“Kota,” Armie deadpans, stubbing out his cigarette and fitting it into the already overcrowded ashtray on an amp. “You can’t fool me.” He drags a wooden stool over, taking a seat across from her, his knees winged out wide with her legs folded daintily in the space between.

“What?” Dakota asks, giggling, nervous.

Armie steals her drink, taking a swig before pressing it back into her hand. “Shoe’s on the other foot now,” he says proudly. “You’re a heartbreaker, Dakota, and Jack is my friend. So do I tell you not to see him? You’re probably going to hurt him.”

He’s joking, had simply thought this new development ironic in the light of how Dakota warned him off Timmy, but Dakota doesn’t seem to find it very funny. Her eyes go shiny and wide and then burst, tears rushing over, lip trembling. She sets aside her beer and tips forward to throw both arms around Armie’s shoulders, all but sitting on his lap.

“Jesus, Armie. I’m so sorry! I feel terrible,” she blubbers against his bare shoulder. He can feel her tears against his skin.

Bewildered, Armie turns toward where she’s burying her face in his neck, consoling her with one hand. “Woah, woah,” he says, “I was kidding. Mostly.”

She pulls back, eyebrows bent close together. Sniffling, she wipes at the slick skin beneath her eyes. Last night at the party Dakota had been weepy and apologetic but Armie hadn’t pressed her for what; he’d just applied blame to the red punch she’d been drinking all night. Now he’s realizing that this must have been bothering her for some time.

“I’m so protective of Timmy and you’d just moved back,” she babbles, getting out as many words in one breath as possible. “I thought you were just being, you know.” She tilts her head. “He’s pretty, Armie,” Dakota explains, shrugging a shoulder. Armie can’t help but huff out a laugh. She’s fucking right. “I know how much you like pretty things, but this one? He’s important to me.”

Armie understands her concern. It wasn’t that he’d moved to Washington and returned to L.A a new person, with new morals. His intentions when he met Timmy all those months ago were exactly what she was worried about; fuck him and then forget about him.

So no, Armie isn’t _different_ — but Timmy is.

“Yeah, I get that,” he says, giving her cheek a soft pat. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“I want to, though. I know I put you off. I had no idea that you — and then, fuck, Matty showed up and Timmy seemed so.” Dakota shakes her head, her shoulders slumping when his face falters. “Just call me an asshole so I feel better.”

“You’re an asshole,” Armie says with absolutely zero hesitation. They both grin and break into laughter. Dakota moves back to her seat and picks up her beer. They sit in a few moments of silence until she decides she’s not finished yet.

“I’ve never seen someone affect you like this. I mean, you’re always an ass but Timmy really messed you up.” Dakota gives him an encouraging smile. “You should talk to him, you know.”

“What makes you think I haven’t?” Armie tries not to smirk but the way Dakota’s entire body inflates with excitement means she’s seen through his indifferent facade.

“Armie! What does that mean?” She moves closer, and he fights rolling his eyes. He feels like a fucking teenager, gossiping. He hates it, but also maybe kind of likes it in some twisted way. “Are you two together?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Dakota narrows her eyes and he knows that if he doesn’t give her more she will just keep asking. “We haven’t talked about the...details. But. Yeah, I don’t know.” Armie’s sure he looks as hopeful as he sounds. His face feels hot.

“God. Gross, you’re like, really into him.” She smiles.

He doesn’t want to tell her just how deep it goes but he nods. She knows him well enough not to push any further. She’s been given what he’s willing.

Dakota finishes off her beer and opens them both another one. They chat for a while longer. About the band. Music. Tour. Jack and Timmy keep popping back up in conversation until Dakota, half tipsy, falls into a self-described brilliant idea.

“We should all go out for lunch tomorrow! Like, a double date. How fucking cute would that be?”

“Oh, so you and Jack are dating now, huh?” Armie laughs. “Is he aware?”

“He will be,” she giggles, pulling out her phone to probably text Jack and break the news.

“Just so you know, if you hit it and quit it I’m going to make sure Jack comes to every one of our shows for the rest of forever.”

“I won’t!” Dakota swears, beaming. “So we’re on? I know a good place. Great food. Real casual. Plenty of exits.”

Armie shakes his head, knocking into her beer bottle with his. “You’re terrible. We’ll see.”

Dakota scoffs. “Oh whatever. That’s a yes.”

-

Armie plugs in his phone and takes a shower as soon as he gets home from the warehouse. Jack tries to corrall him into an Italian horror film but Armie lifts his arms and wafts his hands menacingly to emphasize how badly he reeks.

Once he’s clean and dressed in a pair of joggers and an old t-shirt, he lays back on his bed to ruminate on Dakota’s suggestion for lunch.

It could be an innocuous start to figuring things out with Timmy.

Armie’s eyelids close slowly as he staggers through the mosaic of events in his life that have lead him to this very moment; to DLID, to Washington, to LA.

To Timmy.

To being in love.

God, what the fuck? Acknowledging his feelings factually sounds insane in the quiet respite of his mind. He isn’t a romantic, but he isn’t a cynic either. Dakota has called him a narcissist plenty of times but the desire to seek out companionship with another person had honestly just never been appealing. No one, absolutely no one, was worth the bullshit. Not in the name of romance.

So Armie perfected the habit of finding people that he could get what he needed from; usually just a warm body for a decent lay. Once or twice a person tried to snake their way over his walls but he had become an expert at pushing people away. What set Timmy apart was that he was even better at pushing back.

Timmy was a conundrum and his persistence to constantly challenge Armie was what ultimately won him over. He’s loathe to admit it, but Timmy absolutely owns him.

His face. His hair. His wit. Everything together was the magic combination to Armie’s lockbox, when all this time he had assumed it was made without a key.

-

Armie goes through two cigarettes and a tall can of Kirin before he’s gathered up the courage needed to dial Timmy’s number. He holds the phone to his ear, his fingers already itching to pull a third cigarette from the pack on the spare pillow. He stares out the window and counts the cars passing through the intersection to keep from counting the droning rings of Timmy not picking up.

The call goes to voicemail. _Hey, you’ve reached Timothée. Leave your number and I’ll call you back. Most likely. Peace!_

Armie thinks he would find the message endearing as hell if there weren’t a strange, unfamiliar reaction to it manifesting instead.

Pushing back against the ill feeling, he tries Timmy one more time but it just trills and trills again until, _Hey, you’ve reached —_ Armie hangs up and tosses his phone down.

“Shit.”

He pulls the smoke from a gluttonous third cigarette so quickly he almost chokes. His mouth is dry; his blood feels curdled and his skin tight. He tries to reason with himself but his thoughts spiral regardless.

Rationale tells him that Timmy is probably just at work. Maybe asleep, or showering. He could have left his phone on silent and forgotten about it.

Or maybe he’s with Matty. Saying goodbye. _Fucking one last time._

Armie is gripped by an unshakeable fear that has him questioning what the hell he thinks he’s doing. Guys like him didn’t get happy endings. And when they did, it was only prologue, something given to be taken away, to put meaning into suffering.

He stews alone for a few minutes, watching his ceiling fan spin round on its lowest setting, but it’s an untenable path he’s storming down.

Scrambling for distraction, Armie throws himself up onto his feet and stalks out into the main room to finish the movie Jack is watching in the dark. Their feet crowd the same ottoman and Jack wordlessly offers the last few bites of his ice cream bar, too engrossed by the movie to talk.

It’s a Giallo film, whatever the fuck that means. Armie finishes the ice cream and chews the wooden stick, snapping off a shard and spitting it onto the coffee table.

Every five minutes he’s tapping his phone to check the time. Is Whole Foods even open after 10:00 PM?

Jack is crunching ice next to him, his big eyes glued to the television.

Thirty minutes later, while someone is getting stabbed to death on screen, Armie’s phone rumbles. It makes him jump and he looks down to see Timmy’s name screaming at him, lets it buzz a few times before sweeping it off his thigh and answering. “Hello?” He gets up and leaves the room.

“Armie. Hey!” Timmy’s voice is light, airy. He sounds breathless, maybe nervous. It makes Armie even more paranoid. “You called.”

“I did.”

“I’m sorry I missed you.” He starts to explain. “I was at—”

Armie interrupts with a sharp, “It’s fine. You don’t need to tell me.”

“Huh?” Timmy sounds utterly confused and Armie leans forward, pressing his face into his palm. The panic in his gut is implacable. “Armie.” His name is a question.

“I just mean, whatever you were doing. It’s alright.” _Or whoever you were with_ , he thinks irrationally. He feels disappointed in himself, but plainly, he can’t stomach another round of Timmy seeing someone else. Until they sit down and hash everything out, ignorance would be bliss.

There’s a small beat of silence and shuffling on the other end. Armie winces when he hears a car door shut.

“I just got off work, Armie. I closed tonight.”

Armie thinks that the relief should be satisfying but all it does is make him question how any of this could be worth the trouble. Did people enjoy feeling this way? Was loving someone inherently meant to be miserable? It felt like whenever he was around Timmy, all the bullshit made sense but as soon as there was distance and perspective, Armie was suddenly too far out of his depth.

He doesn’t have the skillset to navigate this thing. It feels too big. Too fragile.

“What are you doing?”

Timmy’s voice pulls Armie back to the present. He ashes out the cigarette that he’s furiously inhaled, sat at the edge of his bed.

“I’m at home.”

“Can I come see you?” Timmy asks, his mouth right against the transmitter. “Do you want to see me? I know you said this weekend but I’m off tomorrow and free tonight. And after yesterday--I just haven’t stopped thinking about what you said…”

Armie can barely swallow Timmy’s words, he’s speaking so fast. The request is tempting, because Armie knows seeing Timmy might decontaminate some of the toxic thoughts running through him, but on second review, maybe that’s why he shouldn’t. He’s still trying to get a grip on this new reality and being alone with Timmy, at night in his apartment, after their confessions will only lead to one of two things; an argument or sex.

Armie doesn’t feel equipped to handle either until he’s sorted out this bad mood with a full night's sleep.

Lunch tomorrow, with Dakota and Jack present to act as a buffer, is starting to seem like a pretty safe option, albeit weird and potentially awkward.

“It’s late and if you come over now...it’s just not a good idea.” Armie bites down on his lip. He speaks with his head bowed. “I want to see you, and we should talk about things but. This isn’t , like, a fucking booty call or whatever.”

“No, no. I know.” Timmy sounds slightly frantic. Armie can imagine him shaking his head and swinging his curls. “I didn’t mean it like— I wasn’t trying to. Shit,” Timmy sighs, frustrated. Armie feels bad for accusing him of so many things in such a short time frame. Timmy surrenders. “I just really want to see you.”

Armie swallows. It sucks to think he’s disappointed Timmy yet again. “Dakota wants to get lunch tomorrow. Uh, with you and me. And Jack.”

“I knew something was going to happen with them,” Timmy whispers conspiratorially, momentarily distracted from his pressing desire to see Armie _now._ “Where at?”

“Some place called Highwater. Dakota’s pick. I’ve never been.” He’s preemptively grateful for the time he’ll have to mentally prepare before seeing Timmy again. Had Timmy pushed back much more on coming over now, Armie would have caved; he’s useless when it comes to denying the kid anything, but long term it will be better if they wait to hang out tomorrow.

Timmy wets his mouth before he speaks, and Armie hears it through the phone, feels it in his groin. “Okay,” he agrees. “Let’s do that. What time?”

“One?”

“Cool. What are you going to do now?”

Armie picks a sliver of wood from between two teeth. “Dunno,” he shrugs, “Probably drink with Jack then pass out. You?”

Timmy has him on the speakerphone while he drives. He lets the conversation lull for a few seconds, the sound of cars whooshing by loud without his voice to pull focus. “Maybe fuck around in my dark room. I’m not tired yet.”

“I’d like to fuck around with you in your dark room,” Armie tells him, one hand wandering under the waistband of his sleep pants. He palms himself remembering their disastrous makeout session there, months ago.

“God,” Timmy huffs, his voice drawn and petulant, “I hate you.”

Armie removes his hand before he gets carried away. He sits back up. “Sure you do. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yay,” Timmy swoons adorably on the other end of the line. “Bye, Armie.”

Armie gets up to shut the door and jerks off before rejoining Jack to confirm lunch tomorrow and waste his ass in Call of Duty.

-

“Let’s fucking go already,” Jack whines, buzzing around the opening of Armie’s room in a tan hoodie and deep blue jeans.

Armie growls from the inside of his black sweater, only half-dressed. “Relax. Dakota’s going to realize you’re a loser no matter what time we get there.” He fights his way through it, situating the sleeves, looking over to take in Jack’s frown.

“Fuck you, Hammer. I’m a delight,” he pouts, moving back when Armie rolls on his deodorant and leaves the room, swatting Jack on his way past.

Truth be told, he’s glad for Jack’s nerves. They are a welcome distraction from his own. He’d much rather talk Jack down about seeing Dakota than maneuver through the clusterfuck inside his own head that wants to list all the ways he’s going to fuck up with Timmy.

They take Armie’s car to the restaurant. Highwater is a popular hole in the wall close to the beach. There’s always a wait, which is why he’s never been, but Dakota texted that she scored reservations online.

It’s raining when they step outside of the apartment, though neither want to turn back for an umbrella.

The parking lot smells like ozone. There’s something cleansing about it, Armie’s summer sins washed away. Palm trees dance in the onslaught of water and wind.

They hurry, hunched and splashing through shallow puddles, and throw themselves into the Altima. Armie turns over the engine, twisting on the wipers while Jack shakes out next to him like a dog.

“This is weird, man,” Jack says, making a face at the radio, undoubtedly judging Armie’s tastes while he pulls out onto the road.

“Seriously,” Armie agrees, notching up the strength on the windshield wipers. “When I pictured seeing Timmy again, I didn’t think you’d be there.”

“Why not? I basically got you two back together.”

Armie looks away from the road to grimace at him. “You really didn’t.”

“Pretty much,” Jack grins, thoroughly pleased with himself. “I’ve been on your team since the beginning. If it wasn’t for me--”

“Easy,” Armie cautions, nervous enough without Jack spinning him a yarn about his past failings. “What about you and Dakota? You still haven’t said whether or not anything happened Thursday.”

“Ehm. Pot and kettle, mate. You disappeared for a half hour and re-emerged a new man, and I haven’t heard shite about it. How in the fuck did you manage to patch things up with Tim-o?”

“It’s not all roses and sunshine yet. And we just talked,” Armie says, but the half-truth sounds thin even to his own ears. He can feel Jack’s massive eye roll from the passenger seat.

“Right,” Jack mutters, and settles into his phone, briefly quieted.

The drive to the restaurant takes forever. People in Los Angeles don’t know how to exist in the rain. It doesn’t make sense to them. Liquid? Falling from the sky? Every single car on the road lurches through the streets, or careens around corners like they’re in a Fast & The Furious film. There is no middle ground.

Jack points out the window at a man in a polo, beanie, and flip flops, being swallowed by a wave of gutter runoff. “Look at this fucking spanner,” he giggles boyishly, craning his head to witness the aftermath.

Armie checks the GPS on his phone and starts looking for parking. They’re close. “I know you don’t need advice from me,” he starts, still looking down. “But take it slow with Dakota, if you actually think you might like her.”

A spot opens up on the other side of a one way street. Armie changes lanes and puts his car in reverse, laying an arm out along the back of Jack’s seat to watch where he’s maneuvering and parallel park.

Jack is watching him when he looks back to angle into the space. “T’anks, Armie,” he says, blue eyes blazing and happy. The car settles into park and Armie engages the emergency break with a lurch.

“Shall we?”

-

Dakota and Timmy are waiting for them when they enter the restaurant. Armie can see Dakota waving behind the Hostess’ podium. Timmy is seated next to her, his eyes glued to the entrance, to Armie.

A searing anticipation zings through Armie, his eyes raking Timmy top to bottom. They’d spent most of the summer in t-shirts with sweat sticking to their skin, but now Timmy is layered, wearing grenade green Doc Martens and jeans and is slowly unbuttoning a knee length grey coat. He straightens back into his seat wearing a zip up, hood pulled tight so his insane curls are pushed in every direction over his face.

Timmy is a living, breathing overdose and Armie is only too ready to be pulled under, finished fighting this addiction.

“Hi,” Timmy greets with a soft smile, now peeling out of the hoodie to reveal a multicolored striped sweater underneath it all. He hangs the stuffed coat over one arm. Armie wants to eat him.

“Hey.”

Silence passes between them, a clear uncertainty of protocol now that they are living in this post-declarations world. Dakota is busy with Jack and Armie hasn’t heard a word the hostess is saying. Seeing Timmy is tunnel vision right now.

Timmy’s gaze is sticky and bold. He looks Armie over, his head tilting to the side, an eyebrow raising at Armie’s soppy vans that he trekked through the rain with.

Timmy points to his feet. “Californians are idiots,” he asserts and Armie shrugs, pulling tight his moto jacket.

“And New Yorkers are assholes,” he cheeses back; Timmy’s bark of laughter gives him more validation than it earns. Armie reaches out and pulls on the bunched fabric against Timmy’s stomach. “You’re dressed like it’s fucking snowing.”

“I don’t like the rain,” he explains lightly. “And I’m always cold.”

Armie shakes his head like he doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.

Decor is tacked to every wall and the ceiling in here. It’s a fire hazard, to be honest. Posters in chunky frames and fishnets adorned with little fake crabs. More than one life-size plastic shark.

Timmy waits for another second, looking around, then makes a loud sound of frustration and throws himself towards Armie, hoisting himself up on his tiptoes and balancing his hands on Armie’s shoulders. He moves to kiss his cheek, maybe, but Armie is caught off guard and shifts so their mouths end up glancing off one another. It’s awkwardly sweet and Armie thinks he likes it, only a small piece of his mind on his friends watching it happen.

“Gross,” Dakota teases, threading through the restaurant after the hostess when she’s rallied them. A nearby family glares, and Timmy and Armie share a laugh over their constipated frowns as they navigate the overpacked dining area to get to their table.

He and Jack sit across from Dakota and Timmy, Armie and Timmy on one end next to a window looking out at the beach. Everything is muddy and grey, but there are still people walking along the water, in workout clothes or with clear umbrellas holding hands.

“What’s good here?” Armie asks, opening a laminated menu. He scans for a second or two, but his eyes want to be on Timmy. When he looks, self-restraint spent, Timmy is looking too.

His face twinges with warmth and his stomach with discomfort. Butterflies, apparently. Ew.

“What are you going to get?” Timmy asks, fidgeting with the bent corner of his menu.

Armie didn’t make it past the first page. “A waffle.”

Timmy’s subdued smile gives way to an exaggerated eye roll. “A waffle?!” he yells. “Armie, we’ve been over this. The time for breakfast food is over.”

Jesus Christ, he’d forgotten their argument in his car, months and months ago. He puts up a hand, “I don’t want to hear it,” and turns to Jack. “What do you think? Breakfast food. An acceptable meal all day or only before...when was it? 10:30?”

Timmy nods seriously.

“All day,” Jack chimes in with only a second’s thought, “But you Americans do it all wrong. Where’s the beans? Where’s the tea?”

Dakota pulls a face, the sunglasses propped behind her ears jarred by her disgust. “ _Beans?_ ”

“Beans, yes!” Jack underlines excitedly.

Dakota looks to Armie, blinking out S.O.S. in morse code. “I think we’ve made a huge mistake,” she tells him, and Timmy elbows her in the ribs.

“Shut up, you jerk,” he growls, laughing.

The waitress breaks things up when she stops back over to take their orders. Everyone rattles off what they want and when she disappears, Timmy is pulling out his phone.

“I developed the film rolls from the tour. Only enlarged a few images, but I think there’s some good stuff.”

Everyone leans in over the table immediately to look at his screen. Armie’s afraid of what he’s going to see, intimate pictures of Matty maybe, portraits that prove what they had was real. But the pictures Timmy blew up are mostly of DLID, only one of them showing the 1975--a shot from the crowd that encompasses the entire stage.

Timmy scrolls by them quickly, but they’re incredible. Every single picture in perfect focus, black & white or blistering color, close ups of the band on stage and candids from their road trip too. He’s printed the one of Armie at the boardwalk.

Armie can remember the salt of the ocean and Timmy’s brand of shampoo that evening, cloying in his throat, making him hurt.

That was less than two weeks ago. Thank fuck they’re in a different place now.

“That’s all I’ve done,” Timmy says, humble, minimizing his talent. He puts his phone back under the table, shrinking in his chair.

Armie casts a line out for his gaze, securing it once he hooks in. “They’re really fucking good,” he stresses, “You need to do something with them. That photobook you were talking about…”

“I’m gonna do it, I think,” Timmy beams, blossoming under Armie’s praise. “One of my professors from UCLA is going to help me find a publisher. He thinks that with the popularity of the 1975 it won’t be difficult getting a deal, small batch to start probably.”

“You’ll have to have a reception when it’s released. Drive Like I Do can play,” Dakota volunteers.

“That would be so rad,” Timmy grins. “There are a few galleries I’ve worked with downtown before. Maybe they could host it.”

She envelops him in a constrictive hug. “My freaky-talented baby,” she wails, stroking the side of his face.

Timmy preens, petting her hair.

Armie only remembers his own news because he’s so thrilled for Timmy, and because they both circle back to goddamn Matty.

Dakota must have been reminded too because once she’s had her fill of fawning, she looks to him, checking to see if he’s going to be the one to spill or if she should.

“Dakota is going to a meeting with a record label next week,” Armie says, drowning his smile in his glass of water.

“No fucking way!” Jack bursts, knocking Armie in the shoulder with his fist. “For DLID? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Armie’s going too,” Dakota adds. “Don’t think you can get out of it just because you don’t get along well with others.”

Timmy across the table is unusually quiet, but joy bleeds into his expression, and Armie’s heart beats for it. “You guys, that’s incredible,” he says in a small voice, heaping his bundled enthusiasm onto Armie and Dakota both. “Which label?”

“Luca Records,” Dakota sighs dreamily, and Jack lurches forward in his chair.

“No! You’re havin’ a laugh.” He whips his head towards Armie for confirmation. “That’s major.”

“Nothing’s a done deal yet,” Armie says to bring them back down into the atmosphere, “but it’s exciting.”

“It is,” Timmy echoes, watching him, his pretty eyes and his pretty face pointed only at Armie.

Then the food arrives and everyone shuts the fuck up for a few minutes to tuck into their plates.

Conversation circles into random anecdotes once the first few inches of their plates are cleared. Armie has no idea how they end up here but Dakota takes it upon herself to indulge the table in Armie Facts without his consent. He could murder her.

She pops a cube of watermelon into her mouth, eyes gleaming. Armie knows that look. In fifteen years, it’s never prefaced anything good. “This’ll be a fun one for the table,” she says, tinkling laughter, the menace. “You would never guess, but I took Armie’s V-card.”

Armie is too stunned by what she’s said to clock the dramatic shock slapped across Timmy’s face. And Jack’s, to a lesser degree. “Excuse you,” he scowls, shaking his head, feeling everyone’s worlds being bumped off their axes. “I also took yours.”

“You slept together?” Timmy gapes, turning to stare at both of them in stricken disbelief. There is a smudge of guacamole hanging on his top lip. Armie would wipe it off but Timmy looks like he might bite his hand if he tries.

Dakota dispels his reaction with a wave. “It was a million years ago. We were what? Freshmen in high school? Needless to say, it was short-lived. We make much better friends.” She picks back up her fork, gesticulating with it. “Looking back, it feels like fucking my brother.”

“Thanks,” Armie gripes, his face warm. He checks Timmy to make sure that he is going to recover from this revelation, and then to Jack, who is staring eagerly back at him, and smiling broadly.

Armie realizes why he would be wearing that expression, only a second too late. _Don’t_ he mouths darkly, but Jack is already turning back to the other side of the table to pile on.

“I guess that makes us three for three then.”

Timmy goes as white as a sheet, wiping off his mouth only to continue staring. “You slept with Armie too?” he asks, not in full control of his faculties, his words slightly slurred.

“No, no,” he edits, still grinning like a fool. “Though we would have if it’d been up to this guy.” His hand whams out against Armie’s chest. “Did kiss me though. It was quite the proposal.”

Dakota picks her jaw up from the floor first, bubbling over into hysterics. “We could have our own show on TLC,” she snorts. “The Hammer Sister-Wives of L.A.”

Timmy is still looking from Armie to Jack and back, but soon he and Jack join in, pitching ideas for the pilot, talking about the matching outfits they should get, running away with the notion.

Armie wants to crawl underneath the table and, god willing, die. He must be beet red, covers his face with both hands, groaning. “Christ, I have _terrible_ taste.”

“No,” Timmy grins, folding up the end of a taco with his long fingers and bringing it to his lips. “We do.”

From that point on there is no gap in conversation. Everyone talks, sometimes over one another and often with their mouths full. Stories upon stories, most of which paint Armie in a terrible light, and some friendly Q and As pass over the table top.

Armie takes a moment to really feel his happiness while it’s present. To live it. He’s sat with three of his favorite people on Earth, and they’re all getting on so well, bonding over Armie’s shortcomings and their affection for him alike.

These three beautiful assholes are his people, whether he likes it or not. (And he’d never say so, but he does.)

-

When lunch is over and Dakota has stolen the check, exclaiming that she’s paying for the table, they waffle as a foursome about what to do next.

“I want to see the new Coppola movie,” Dakota throws out, adding in the tip on the receipt. “Any takers?”

Jack tries to give her a rolled up twenty, but she pushes away his fist. “Fine,” he relents. “Then the movie’s on me.”

“You want to?” Dakota asks, a giddiness in the prospect that Armie hasn’t seen from her in while.

“‘Course,” Jack beams. “We can stop by the gas station on the way there, get snacks and a bottle of wine to sneak in.”

Her eyes turn into big, cartoon hearts.

Timmy looks at Armie across the table, absently jangling the ice in his empty glass.

“Do you want to come over?” Armie says after a slow exhale, not willing to pretend that he gives a fuck about going to the movies.

“Yeah,” Timmy replies easily, his eyes cheerily arched by his closed-mouth smile. “That sounds good.”

Armie catches Dakota’s gaze, but there’s nothing in it except warmth. “I take Jack, you take Timmy?” she suggests, and they all agree.

It’s still raining when they get outside. Armie would give Timmy his jacket but he’s not sure he can physically wear another layer, already posed like a stick figure in the sweater, hoodie, and overcoat.

Everyone hugs goodbye, even Timmy and Jack. They all make tentative plans to do this again.

“Bye, babes!” Dakota sing-songs before loping out from under the onning and into the downpour with an arm hefted over Jack’s shoulder, pointing him in the direction of her red El Camino, which Jack then starts reeling about loudly. What an idiot.

Armie watches them for a few seconds, a half smile on his face while Jack laughs with his mouth open at the way Dakota dances through puddles, towing him along.

“Where are you?” Timmy asks, huddled in his layers, looking unhappily into the grey sky above, his face hidden by the high collar of his coat.

Armie inclines his head to the right and they quickly jaywalk when there’s a gap in traffic. It’s raining too hard to journey to the end of the block for the crosswalk.

Timmy dives into the car and pulls the door closed, water dripping from the soppy, curled ends of his hair. He bows his head, balled up in response to the chill. He yanks on his seatbelt and attempts to situate. “Who allowed this weather?”

The rain sluices down Armie’s leather jacket, darkening the fabric of his seat when he sits back and turns over the engine. “You’re fine,” he says, dismissive. After time in Washington, he’s immune to precipitation.

A line of cars forms, waiting for his spot when the brake lights go on. Armie eases out onto the road and points them in the direction of his apartment. He doesn’t have a plan for what comes next, just knows that they should probably talk, and that he isn’t ready for Timmy leave.

The air on the drive crackles with tension, neither of them talking. Timmy’s fingers peek out of his sleeves to hold his phone, thumb scrolling content on some app. Armie considers turning on the radio but the sound of traffic in the rain is meditative—until Timmy speaks.

“The 1975 fly out this afternoon,” he says passively, not looking up. “Matty put it on his story.”

It’s Armie’s first direct look at one of the issues still fencing them apart; the reasons for them to negotiate for why they should or why they should not move forward as a duo.

It was easy to gloss over the sprawling number of _why nots_ when Armie was drunk, and Timmy was drunk and gorgeous in his Halloween Joker facepaint. Armie _loved_ him. And under the influence of five or eight beers, it was no surprise that he felt ready for the responsibility that came tied to love.

In the light of day, their issues still have sharp edges. They are massive and gnarled and blocking the path forward.

Armie hums in response, tonguing the cracked left seam of his lips. He tightens his grip around the steering wheel, needing an anchor. The material is cold against his callouses. “Are you okay?” he asks eventually, sincere in his question but, at the same time, wanting to leave Matty out of today. Out of forever, really.

Timmy’s, “yeah, it’s over,” is borderline touchy, and Armie’s nostrils flare.

“Well it wasn’t over _a week ago,_ when tour ended,” he snipes. “So, excuse me if I have trouble believing you.”

It’s exactly what Armie coached himself not to do, react emotionally to this shit, but Timmy has a way of knocking down all of his tactical defenses.

Timmy drops his phone into his lap and turns to look at Armie, an intensity in his face that could speak on a number of feelings. “When I was with him, all I did was fucking talk about you,” he says in a measured voice, halfway to exasperation.

Armie pops his jaw forward, sucking in his lower lip, steadying himself. Pornographic noises muffled by thin sheetrock cut into his level head. “I mean, that’s not _all_ you did.”

Any self-righteousness in Timmy is ruptured by Armie’s tone and deflates. “God, Armie,” he punches out, surging against the seatbelt, which holds fast, trapping him in. Quickly, he unbuckles and twists, putting his hands against Armie’s wet jacket sleeve, around the side of his neck. “I had no idea,” he wheezes, wanting Armie to look at him. “I swear. At the hotel, I didn’t know! That you were in the next room over, fuck. I feel so--”

“I figured,” Armie sighs, stealing a glance, his pulse stuttering at Timmy’s proximity and at the look on his face. Pained. “Sit back down, I’m going to kill us.” He forces himself to put his eyes back on the road to avoid doing so.

Timmy’s hand coasts down Armie’s throat and chest, snagging into the front of his sweater before he complies and buckles in again, still half-turned to stare at him. “Matty and I,” he stumbles, lips working around silent words while he works out exactly what he wants to say. “It wasn’t like you and me. It felt...different. It was comfy, and good. But it wasn’t like us.”

They roll up to a red light and Armie pulls his attention away from the road. “What do you mean?”

“He was cute, really cute--” Armie glowers. “But I didn’t _want_ him...he just. He occupied my time,” Timmy breathes out a sigh but sucks in a breath before continuing. “Mostly, when we hung out, we just talked about politics and shit. We didn’t really fuck. Well, not often. It wasn’t that physical.”

Armie takes a long breath. He doesn’t know if Timmy is lying to spare him, but won’t demand the truth either. He lays into the gas pedal when the light turns green. “It was hard to watch,” he summarizes neatly, trying to lead them away from the more gritty details.

“Tell me about it,” Timmy mutters, his boots squeaking against one another on the floor mat. His gaze hardens, nailed to the side of Armie’s face. Armie knows what’s coming out of Timmy’s mouth before the words reach his ears. “How many people did you sleep with on tour?”

He scrubs a hand over his cheek, turning right off of the main road. “I don’t know,” he says after a long beat of silence. “A few.” It’s irritating how queasy he feels about it, looking back. He doesn’t owe Timmy anything but it’s a new sensation, to care so much about someone else’s feelings that it changes how he views his own choices.

“I hated it,” Timmy says darkly, shuddering because of the memory of it or the cold. Armie ratchets up the heater to be safe.

“I’m clean, if that’s what you’re worried about,” He throws out in defense, or maybe assurance. He got tested after tour to try to make himself feel less pitiful. “And I don’t fuck randoms bare.”

Timmy glares at him, forearms knotted over his sternum. “But it fucking killed me to see you with other people, Armie. How many were there before tour, when you didn’t talk to me for a month?”

Armie drives down a long side street, the gate for his apartment building at the end of it. “You didn’t talk to me either,” he notes, mopping away a rogue bead of rain that streaks down from his hairline and into his brow. He rolls down the window to poke in the code.

“How many people, Armie?” Timmy huffs, demanding, pocketing his phone when they come to a stop in the covered parking spot designated for 23B.

Armie cuts the engine and withdraws the keys, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth. The truth is: he doesn’t know. “Ten maybe?” he offers when Timmy hasn’t opened the door or even unbuckled his seat belt.

Timmy’s mouth goes tight with a frown, his eyebrows drawn together by an invisible thread. “Ten?” he repeats, his voice thin. Armie’s trained himself to be indifferent to people’s judgement but the fact that he can’t tell if Timmy is disgusted, or disappointed, or both, frustrates him into action.

“More, probably,” he snaps. “At least they didn’t mean anything.” Yeah, he’d fucked strangers whose names he can’t remember but Matty _meant_ something to Timmy, even if he wants to downplay it.

Fueled by another gallon of aggravation, Armie gets out and shuts his door. After a few seconds alone in the rain, Timmy climbs out to follow him.

The walk to his apartment and up the stairs is silent. The key doesn’t want to fit in the lock so Armie forces it, swiping rain off his head when it finally clicks. He steps back and lets Timmy in first.

They both leave shallow puddles in the foyer, not soaked through but glazed with water. It clings to Armie’s eyelashes, tastes clean on his mouth.

With his head down, he walks numbly towards the kitchen, turning on the light. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks. When there’s no answer, Armie looks and sees that Timmy isn’t still standing where he was.

Taking another step, he sees that the door to his room is open.

“Fuck,” Armie sighs, having hoped they’d get a breather after the tense car ride. He can’t imagine anything going better in the close quarters of his bedroom.

He follows the empty space of the hallway to find Timmy anyway.

“What is it?” He asks when he sees him just standing in the center of his room, his coat and hoodie discarded and crumpled near the door. He’s even taken off his boots, socked feet tapping the hardwood as he looks around each wall. His face is somersaulting through a pinwheel of emotions.

“Nothing,” Timmy says, but seems scandalized. “Your room is different.” He moves towards the bookshelf against the wall, a crappy IKEA one that Armie built with Jack, while drunk. There may or may not be a few vital pieces missing but, so far, it gets the job done.

Armie’s room is minimalist, like him. An assortment of literature on a bookshelf, which Timmy traces with a fingertip, drawing over every spine. There’s a practice drum pad in the corner, a full hamper of laundry that’s heaped with different fades of black. His mattress has a frame now, and it’s pushed against one wall. The only thing hanging up is a framed collage of DLID that Dev sent while he was up in Washington.

“Did you move in with Jack because of me?” Timmy asks apropos of nothing, his arms crossed over his chest before dropping to his side; then his hands are in his hair. Armie can tell he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

That makes two of them.

Armie laughs for self-preservation but as he reflects on his reasoning, he comes to terms that while he did need a place of his own, seeing Timmy cozied up with Matty at Dakota’s definitely gave urgency to his search.

“No,” Armie tries, but Timmy’s stare strips him. “I was going to move out eventually. But sure, the idea that you might just—I don’t know, fucking, show up whenever, wasn’t appealing to me anymore.” Neither was the sight of him and Matty but it felt useless to bring that up again. “You were like this bear trap that I kept stepping into, everywhere I went. So I decided to remove myself, let you have it all.”

Timmy is clearly offended. “ _Have it all?_ I know you think I was trying to steal your life, your friends, or what-the-fuck-ever but.” He breathes out flustered air from his lungs, threading both palms through his hair, pushing the curls back. “It’s my life now too. My friends. Dakota and I have been through some shit.”

“Yeah, well,” Armie starts but Timmy cuts him off.

“Yeah well, what?”

“I don’t know, Timmy. Damn.”

They both breathe embittered air. Armie pats his pockets for a cigarette but he was going to buy a pack on the way home and forget to stop somewhere. Great. He can feel Timmy’s eyes boring into him, burning with a heady ambition to keep beating a dead horse and hope for different results, but Armie is starting to realize that they may never fully agree on anything.

Timmy makes a sound, quaint and unnerving, and when Armie leans in to check on it, he isn’t sure if he’s about to cry — a thought that makes his heart pummel in his chest because _that_ is definitely something he can’t deal with. But then Timmy laughs and it’s almost as upsetting as tears would have been.

“Where the fuck is our honeymoon period? Can’t we be good for, like, ten minutes,” Timmy chuckles, his voice tinged with an ache that Armie isn’t familiar with. He’s never had a honeymoon period with anyone. He’s never given a person that much thought.

Armie kicks off his vans and jacket, takes a seat on his bed and leans back to press his spine against the wall. He shifts over so there's space for Timmy to join him but he’s back to slowly pacing the room. Armie wishes he’d settle but it’s also nice to look at him, to have an excuse to watch him unabashedly.

“Wow, we really suck at this,” Timmy declares with a weak smile and right shoulder shrug that bunches his hair, grown out so much since summer. He doesn’t elaborate and Armie doesn’t ask him to.

Armie watches him run his fingers over the small grouping of suit jackets he sometimes wears to work. Timmy looks over his shoulder like he wants to crack a joke but the air is fizzling with so much bottled tension that he must decide against it. Armie uncorks it with a sigh.

“Let’s cut the bullshit.” He crosses one ankle over the other. “I don’t want to fuck around anymore.”

Timmy stops what he’s doing and turns around. He moves over to the edge of the bed, his face contorted into what Armie assumes is indignation.

“I was never fucking around, Armie.” Timmy scoffs, clearly working through a procession of thoughts. He shrugs, hands slapping against his thighs on the descent. “I knew I liked you from day one, and I wanted you to know, so I told you. You just didn’t want what I had to offer.”

Armie doesn’t say, _Fuck you, on day one you had a boyfriend,_ but he wants to.

Smothering the urge to kickstart another round of fighting, he tells Timmy gently, “I know,” remembering all too well how frequently Timmy made it clear that there was more between them than just base attraction. That was part of the issue, that Timmy wasn’t just a handsome lay, that there were _feelings_ involved. Timmy’s. Armie’s. And truthfully, Armie would still rather not deal with them, but has finally conceded to the overwhelming tide inside of him. “That night in the street at Dakota’s, I hit the panic button.”

Timmy is still working through whatever is going on in his head. He sighs aggressively, but then folds to leaning against the mattress. “I just. I wish you would have called after, or something. We wasted so much time because you bailed on me.”

Armie scowls at him then, fumbling with the reins to his temper and this conversation. “Called? When would have been convenient for you? We fucking got into _one_ fight, and the next week you were making out with Matty.” Armie was to blame, but so the fuck was Timmy.

“That isn’t fair,” Timmy twists, hitching his knee up onto the bed. “It’s not like I planned things that way. You told me this meant _’nothing’_.” Timmy puts his fingers in condescending quotations.

“Haven’t you ever said anything you didn’t mean? I lied.” Armie runs a hand over his shorn crown. “You knew that but I — it was just too much, alright? I didn’t handle things well.”

“Things,” Timmy repeats sourly.

This is not how Armie foresaw today going. The blueprints of a nice afternoon together have caught fire and now his room is filling with smoke, making it difficult to breathe, to see Timmy through the soot. “You came on pretty fucking strong, Timmy. Even after your boyfriend showed up.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” he snaps.

Armie snorts. “Hardly.”

Timmy suddenly shifts completely and scoots over on the bed, punching Armie in the shoulder with the heel of his hand, shaking him. “Me and Ansel were one hundred percent over. Don’t blame your freakout on me.”

Just as quickly as it can come on, Armie’s anger breaks looking at Timmy snarling at him.

He’s fucking cute, all worked up, bright eyes and balled fists; Armie would still rather be in this fight, with Timmy, than anywhere else. “Shit— are we done? Or are your panties still in a twist about something else too?”

“You’re _so_ annoying,” Timmy sneers, crawling abruptly into Armie’s lap. He puts his hand out around the front of Armie’s throat, not pressing but insistent nonetheless.

Armie swallows against Timmy’s palm, his mouth twitching to conceal any amusement. He likes seeing Timmy like this, impassioned, bellicose. Armie latches onto Timmy’s waist, kneading into the fabric of Timmy’s vibrant knit sweater, only moving higher once it’s clear that he’s planted there for good.

He slips both hands over Timmy’s ears then, entangling his fingers in his curls. Armie tugs at them, a puff of air pushing out Timmy’s mouth in response. He holds them firmly, tightly enough to keep Timmy steady. “I’m done sharing you,” he says, his eyes locked on.

Timmy smirks like an asshole. “I’m not sharing you either.” His fingers slide to the nape of Armie’s neck, nails digging into the warm skin.

“I mean it.” Armie’s eyes grow dark, intense.

“I know,” Timmy breathes, nodding, sinking towards Armie to bring their mouths together, lips brushing before he feels the silken nudge of Timmy’s tongue to part them.

Armie’s muddy memory of Timmy’s mouth cannot do justice to the real thing.

He usually tastes like a hazy echo of booze, drugs, and reckless decisions. They’ve only kissed sober a handful of times but the way Timmy’s tongue laps into Armie’s open mouth now, his bottom lip a shuddering wet melt against his own, tells him that this is one he won’t forget.

Armie smiles, unzipping the kiss, his own tongue seeking but then Timmy pulls back suddenly, presses his palm flat against Armie’s chest. They’re both already breathless.

“Say it.”

“What?” Armie asks, his face and body hot. Timmy’s lips are turning red, shining with excess saliva.

“You know what,” Timmy breathes. “Please, you didn’t even say it right the first time.”

“Oh really?” Armie baffles.

“Mhm.”

He wishes he could remember his exact wording Thursday, but the beer and his nerves have dulled his memory of what he’d been able to get out. Still, Timmy is looking at him expectantly.

“No,” Armie says, just to rile him.

Timmy bristles, but doesn’t bend. He rolls his hips just barely and Armie’s head falls back against the wall. “Fucking—come on, _say it_ , Armie. I won’t ask again,” he promises, his voice thick and syrupy.

“Liar.” Armie leans in and nips his bottom lip, testing the swell of skin between his teeth. Timmy tries to ease away again but Armie stays him with a hand around the back of his neck. He puts his mouth against Timmy’s ear, kissing the cartilage. “I love you.”

He doesn’t give Timmy a chance to respond, braces an arm around his back and pulls him in hard against his chest, turns his face and fills his gasping mouth with another kiss.

It doesn’t take long until they’re wrestling each other down onto the bed, Timmy fighting his way to straddle Armie’s hips. He sits upright and Armie loses his breath for a moment at the reminder of what it’s like to have Timmy on top of him, the precursor to coming undone.

“Timmy.” Armie’s voice catches in his throat. “You’re —” He's cut off by a finger held against his lips.

“Save the romantic shit. I want to suck your dick first.”

Timmy glides down his hips, over his thighs and settles himself between his legs, and Armie’s chest vibrates with a soft laugh. This wasn’t where he was headed but he can’t resist the opportunity to lighten the mood.

“Sucking dick isn’t romantic?” he jokes, but his face falters as his original thought pushes back. “You’re too goddamn, _hot_ , and I lose a fuckton of brain cells when you look at me like that but,” he cups his hand under Timmy’s chin. “I just wanted to talk, no ulterior motives. I didn’t invite you over for a blow job.”

Timmy places his palm flat against the shape of Armie’s covered cock, already at half-mast just from the sight of Timmy between his knees. He raises an eyebrow, looking a mix of aroused and bemused. “You want to keep arguing in circles instead?”

Armie relents with a shake of his head. He’s over the bickering, so long as they’re nearer to the same page, likely never to be on it.

“We can argue all fucking day, Armie. If that’s what you want.” Timmy lifts up onto his knees briefly to cup Armie’s face in his hands, thumbs pressing in, begging his gaze. He looks tempestuous and demanding and Armie feels his cock pulse. “But if you think you’re going to argue your way out of being with me, let me assure you, it’s too fucking late for that.”

They stare, each challenging the other, as if this precipice is simply a dare, to hold their hands in a bucket of ice water and see who pussies out first. Armie wonders if Timmy still thinks that he’s a flight risk.

He isn’t.

Timmy’s face cracks into a beautiful, proud smile. Little shit. “So, if you’re done being a brat, I’m going to put your cock in my mouth. Finally.”

“ _I’m_ the brat?” Armie shifts his hips as Timmy slides back down his body. He huffs, still smiling as he undoes Armie’s belt, unzips his pants and roughly yanks them down his thighs.

“Shut up,” Timmy says and Armie mimes throwing away the key, his vision going blurry when TImmy rips down his underwear to take his cock into his slender hands. “Holy shit, Armie. Look at you.”

Timmy curls his skinny, pale fingers around the shaft, Armie’s skin heated under his hold. He strokes down, then up, squeezing out a dribble of precome and then kisses the tip. Armie’s abdominals flinch as he watches the warmth spread over the rivets of Timmy’s lips, sucks in a breath when he pulls back with a secret smile and licks the taste off, humming.

Timmy settles in, belly down and finally seals his mouth around Armie’s dick, their eyes meeting over the expanse of his body. He leans back on both elbows, perched so he has a view, scrunching his sweater to his chest, bedroom eyes stuck on his face. Armie feels a hot swirl of tongue and bleeds out a quiet groan.

Fuck, no one should be allowed to look that good with a cock in their mouth.

Timmy works him over with expert precision, cheeks hollowed and breath warm, wet. He uses one hand to stroke in tandem and Armie wishes that the rush of blood in his ears would disperse because Timmy is making the most luscious sounds; whimpers and moans, all vibrating around his cock and sending his nerves into overdrive.

Armie reaches out to thread his fingers into Timmy’s blustery curls, which have taken on new paths as they dry from the rain. He feels his cock press against the back of Timmy’s throat and immediately fists into his hair, making them both cry out and Timmy’s nails dig into skin. He considers apologizing but when their eyes meet again, Timmy’s watery and dark, a smile pinched at the corner of his mouth, he sees that there is no need to.

With his pants bunched around his ankles, Armie is mostly at Timmy’s mercy. He finds it surprisingly easy to hand over control, letting himself be sucked, pulled, licked at any pace Timmy sees fit. It’s good, _really_ fucking good, and he’s able to let go. They find a frantic but steady rhythm for Timmy’s bobbing, up and down, with Armie following his lead holding a handful of curls.

His hips are jumpy, twitching against the mattress in an effort not to fuck up and choke Timmy, but he doesn’t have to work at it for long.

It’s all over when Timmy starts humping absently against his leg, a hand dipping under Armie’s balls to massage them as Armie loses it and pulses down the back of his throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grinds out, face half-drawn into a tight expression. His chest kicks out rough gusts of air and he combs through Timmy’s hair, shoulders relaxing against the wall.

Slowly, his vision returns and he’s able to focus on Timmy looking self satisfied, still half-laying between his legs.

Armie is sure that his smile is sleepy. “Come here,” he says, but Timmy deflects any attempt to undo his pants. “Maybe later.” He walks on his knees back towards Armie until he can bracket his hips once more, but only for a second, to kiss him, petting Armie’s tongue with his own so that he can taste himself. Then he flops over, onto his side.

They sit in the aftermath for a beat, the rain still pattering against the window. Armie pulls up his boxers and kicks off his pants.

Very quickly, Armie feels unequipped for being in a relationship again. Shouldn’t the end goal be an orgasm? What else was there?

He doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t want Timmy to leave either. “So...what do you want to do then?” At that same moment the front door slams closed. They both turn towards the sound. “Jack’s home. I wonder how it went at the movies.”

There isn’t a knock or even a passing hello. A few seconds of happy humming later they hear the mechanism on Jack’s door latch.

Timmy turns to him, his face still pink from exertion. “I’m not even going to ask for context, but no more kissing Jack, okay?”

Armie is caught off-guard but simply nods, grateful for this small mercy. One potential argument diffused. Not that he ever, in his right mind, had the intention of doing so anyway. Jack was handsome, but they were friends. Besides, for him there was only Timmy.

Appeased, Timmy brings the subject back around to picking the next activity. “Netflix?” he suggests, pointing at the laptop closed on the top level of Armie’s bookcase.

Automatically, Armie reaches for it, bringing it over to the bed. He’s frustrated with himself, that he doesn’t know what to do, vocalizes the internal struggle when Timmy looks at him quizzically. “I’m not good at this.”

“That’s okay,” Timmy tells him airily, digging out the top sheet to situate himself underneath it. “I just wanna be yours.”

Armie’s heart leaps into his throat. He swallows it down and opens his computer, loading up Netflix. There isn’t much in his list, and the only shows in his Continue Watching category are music documentaries and movies he would put on for noise to fall asleep to. “What do you want to watch?”

Timmy looks snug next to him, entombed in blankets, his head squarely in the middle of Armie’s other pillow. But in the next moment he’s tearing out of his cocoon to take Armie’s laptop and set it on his other side. “I want you to get under the blankets too,” he says, tugging at the sheet trapped under Armie’s ass.

He groans. “But it’s not cold.”

“Oh well,” Timmy shrugs and shoves him over, wrenching open the covers for Armie to crawl under next to him.

Like the fucking lapdog he is, Armie goes, swiping the computer again once he’s been thoroughly tucked in. “So, what are we watching?”

“I don’t know. Let’s start a show.”

“A show?” Armie snarks, scrolling down the categories to the Recently Added section. “You’re going to fall asleep.”

“Nu uh.”

They sit in silence, the rain tapping, for a little while, looking over their choices. Everything Timmy wants to watch would be committing them to at least five seasons. Armie’s mind wanders to where they would be at the end of that many episodes. Christmas? Next year? It’s a daunting thought.

Timmy lands on LOST, and once he’s decided, there is no persuading him towards anything less substantial.

“Fine,” Armie sighs, defeated. He presses play on the pilot and positions the laptop on his chest so that they both can see. Timmy snuggles up against his side, resting his head on Armie’s shoulder and draping one arm out over his middle behind the laptop.

It’s nice, domestic even. And new. The closest Armie has ever been to laying down and watching a movie with someone, neither of them under the influence or guided by the insinuation of sex, would be years ago with Dakota. She’d been home on break from college with a bad cold and had demanded that he hang out with her anyway. They’d watched Stoker and eaten an entire package of saltine crackers in her childhood bed.

This didn’t feel anything like that.

Timmy looks up at him, his eyes wide and shining from the light of the screen, to check that he’s paying attention. Armie bites down his insistent smile and blinks the small screen into focus.

A lot of people with aesthetic cuts and scrapes run around screaming on a picturesque beach.

Fifteen minutes later, Timmy is snoring on him, mouth pulled open, face slack. He’s beautiful, and blissfully content, not poised to do battle like he has been for most of the day.

Armie stares at Timmy until his neck protests, his fingers walking down the edge of his hip, the tips feeling out a thin stripe of soft skin under the hem of his sweater. It’s still hard to believe that he’s allowed to have this.

There were countless wrong turns and dead ends but, against the odds, they’ve found their way back. Fate is a joke, but this does make him wonder.

Armie finishes the episode alone and wakes up to the Are You Still Watching screen glaring accusingly at him from the laptop, now on low battery. Muzzily, he closes it and reaches to set the computer back on a shelf.

It isn’t fully dark out, but getting late. His room is a soft grey with opaque shadows cutting across the space. A mellow orange light is cast by the window overhead and Timmy’s skin is golden hued from it, his cheekbones sharp, angled against his shoulder.

Armie blinks a few times, his brain slowly reconnecting to reality. He feels groggy but comfortable despite the heat of Timmy sleeping against him.

His breathing must change, or his body tenses because when he finally gets a full look at Timmy still in repose, his body shifts and a low, whimpered sigh spills from between his uneven lips.

Timmy’s eyes open, deep green, and tame. They are gentle and clear and fixed on Armie.

Without a word, just like the morning they’d woken up at Dakota’s, after Armie’s fist fight, their bodies are automatically drawn together. Armie’s eyes close on instinct and with little effort or movement, their mouths fix into a silken kiss.

Timmy makes an appreciative noise and Armie smoothes a hand around the curve of his face, his thumb plucking the corner of his lips when Timmy opens up to melt his tongue against his, everything warm and slow.

They make out for a few dozy minutes, sighing into a languid sort of hunger, tired fingers drifting over each other under the covers.

Armie lifts the sheets away with his elbow so that he can tip and spread himself over Timmy, the weight of the blankets sealing them close together. Timmy’s legs part and fold for Armie to rest inside the cradle of his narrow hips. His socked feet are flat on the bed at either side of Armie’s knees, then stroking down his calves.

“Armie,” he whispers, freeing up his mouth. His eyes are open and his face is flushed; his hands scrabble weakly at Armie’s shoulder blades. “Please, be naked.”

Armie huffs out something of a laugh, but Timmy’s request feels closer to a gut-punch. He brushes the underside of Timmy’s chin with his thumb for a second, back and forth, considering.

Timmy’s body swells gently underneath him like high tide, drawn back and up. He is dark eyelashes and white skin and Armie feels the nonsensical burn of tears looking at him. But it passes and he nods, carefully reaching down to peel off his boxer briefs, shifting them down his legs and off his ankles.

Timmy slides both hands up into his sweater, pulling the collar with his teeth until Armie sits back between his skewed legs long enough to slip it off entirely.

Completely naked, tanned skin and shit tattoos, he covers Timmy up again and kisses him, rolling his hips with more intention, branding him with a hand under his clothes, against the middle of his chest.

“Now you,” Armie says, keeping their mouths attached, only drawing back at the last second to remove Timmy’s striped sweater and the shirt underneath in one go. He drops it over the edge of his bed and rolls to one side so that Timmy can get his jeans off.

When they come together again, it’s just skin on skin, except for Timmy’s socks. He shivers and brings Armie down against him, pulling the blanket so that they’re almost fully hidden underneath it. “I love you,” he breathes, so happy that he sounds almost high.

“That’s good,” Armie answers quietly, gorging himself on the sight of Timmy naked in his bed. He splays a hand up his flank to keep from gripping their cocks and frenziedly bringing them off. Timmy is beautifully hard, his dick slotting against Armie’s hipbone, tiny pumps of his pelvis seeking out friction.

There’s lube in a drawer next to his bed. With Armie’s wingspan he doesn’t have to extricate himself to retrieve it. Timmy’s eyes are as big as saucers when he brings it back under the blanket to uncap it. “What?”

His mouth is an uncomfortable twist. He looks at the bottle and back at Armie. “Did you sleep with any guys when we weren’t talking?”

Armie rubs a fat bead of lube between his fingertips. “Turn over,” he says, and Timmy glooms but his moody, “ _Armie_ ” is muffled in the pillow.

Propped on an elbow, his dick trapped against the outside of Timmy’s thigh, Armie spreads Timmy’s buttcheek with his last two fingers, not speaking until he has the print of his middle finger tapping lightly at Timmy’s hole. “No,” he confirms to the sound of a full-body exhale. “I didn’t fuck anyone who reminded me even remotely of you.”

Timmy’s hips lift away from the mattress, blindly reaching. “Because you didn’t like me?” he asks without sounding too invested in the answer.

Armie cranes forward to plant a kiss against the soft, porcelain round of Timmy’s shoulder. “Because I fucking love you, dummy.”

“Yeah you do,” Timmy sighs smugly, and Armie presses inside with that first finger.

In just a few minutes Timmy is mewling, pink-cheeked and with a crown of tangles, his knees scrabbling at the bed for leverage. Armie is pumping him with two, working on three fingers, and Timmy is reaching incoherence, He has the pillow clipped in his arms and is rubbing his face against it in frustration, shoulder blades winged back. He tries to raise up off the bed but Armie holds him down, setting his teeth against a flat plane of muscle next to his spine. “Feel good?” he provokes, his own hips shifting impatiently while he gets Timmy off.

“Mhm, yeah. I’m always thinking about this, _God,_ ” Timmy bites out, his words warping around a moan.

Armie removes his fingers once he can’t bear to wait any longer, and makes to get up off the bed. There is a box of condoms on his bookshelf. Timmy snaps an arm out to grab his wrist.

“What are you doing?”

Armie flounders. “Getting a condom. Did you not want to...?”

“I do,” Timmy counters, still chasing his breath. “But can we do it without one? I’m good.”

“You got tested? When?”

Timmy flattens his face against the pillow, obscuring his expression from analysis. “The day Matty told me he was going home.”

Armie bites at the inside of his cheek. He can feel the slow crawl of jealousy making its way through his body, urging him to ask more questions about Matty. It makes him want to tear into the details about how they fucked, where, how often, but when Timmy arches his back, fussing against the pillow, muttering a soft, “Please,” into the bed, Armie resigns to fully trust him.

They’re both clean and Armie feels hollowed out by the idea that he is going to know what the inside of Timmy feels like with no barrier between them.

Unsteady, Armie kneels on the bed, spreading Timmy’s thighs apart and pulling him up by the hips. “Bring that ass over here,” he mumbles, lifting Timmy easily, reeling him back so that his bare ass is flush against his cock. He coasts his hands up over each cheek, pulling apart just enough to slot his dick in the groove between them, thrilling when Timmy tenses and releases against him.

He sweeps the lube from the comforter and globs it on, stroking himself against Timmy’s hole, alternating between jerking himself off and nudging the tip of his cock against Timmy’s rim, making him gasp every time he teases the head.

“You're going to kill me,” Timmy stutters, his voice liquid, drooling from his open mouth as he presses the side of his face into the pillow, nips at the inside of his elbow.

“What a shame,” Armie breathes, feigning indifference, stroking down his length once more before lining up, the base of his cock gripped tightly. With his spare hand starfished against the small of Timmy’s back, he slowly begins the push inside. Timmy goes limp in his hands, but Armie isn’t sure whose legs are trembling. The entire bed feels like it’s vibrating.

When he’s been sheathed to the root by blissful heat, Timmy sighs violently, relieved, and Armie bends forward over him, reaching to turn his chin and place a sideways kiss against his mouth while settling inside of him. They make out for a moment, Timmy clenching and slowly easing his hips back to spur Armie into movement once he has adjusted.

The velvet drag of Timmy on his cock is unreal, nothing between them but feeling.

“Fuck, you’re thick,” Timmy whines dazedly, but Armie barely hears him.

He is shipwrecked by the memory of the last time he was inside Timmy, can’t control the words that stumble out of him. “I felt sick about last time,” he confesses in a low voice, more focused on the punishingly slow grind of his hips than in his wording. “I wanted you to leave, even after we came to my room. I knew how much it was going to hurt to fuck you and then watch you go.”

“Armie,” Timmy breathes sharply, reaching back to anchor his hand against the side of Armie’s head, fingers clawed against his scalp. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Armie leans into the sting for a moment. “Okay.” He resolves to make up for the emptiness of their first time now, mouthing against the nape of his neck, leaving a string of hickeys along the span between his shoulders while he builds into a more satisfying rhythm. One hand is clamped around Timmy’s hip and the other is above the pillow, keeping his head from knocking into the wall.

The litany of their heavy breathing drowns out the rain. Armie filters praise and filth in with his pants, nosing at Timmy’s hairline, kissing the shell of his ear.

“I want to see you,” Timmy moans, hiccuping when Armie’s hips snap up and he is flipped. They are only apart for a second or two, Armie guiding himself back inside before Timmy’s legs fold up, his knees near Armie’s armpits. “Fuck, I love you.”

Armie holds Timmy’s throat with both hands, a few of his fingers spidered out along above his collar bones to help direct his thrusts. “Yeah, you too,” he grunts out on an exhale, kissing Timmy, bouncing him with every crank of his hips.

When he breaks away to breathe, Timmy’s mouth tries to follow his and they glance together, held close. Armie elongates his strokes, nailing Timmy’s prostate on each upswing, gathering his legs when he starts to fall apart.

He presses Timmy’s shoulders back into the pillow, driving downward and worming a hand between them to strip his cock until he comes less than a minute later with a shout, messing all over Armie’s hand and stomach.

“Oh my god,” he drawls, gasping for breath, going boneless like a ragdoll with an arm above his head. Armie is only seconds after him, milked by Timmy’s orgasm. He buries any sound in the slick, salty side of Timmy’s neck, clamping down into the cords of muscle and collapsing against him when he’s spent.

Once the world re-forms, Armie grabs the first thing he can reach in his haze; it turns out to be Timmy’s sweater.

“That’s my favorite sweater,” Timmy slurs, still looking more pleased and fucked out than offended when Armie rolls over to wipe down his stomach and deep inner thigh where come has trickled.

“You can have one of mine,” he offers dismissively, wiping off his own dick on the multicolored fabric before balling it up and tossing it over into the laundry basket. It snuffs out his pile of black.

He moves to get up but Timmy claws him in, caging him with arms and legs so that he falls back, face against his abdomen. Armie kisses around his clammy, warm belly before resting a cheek there and closing his eyes.

The ache of losing this, Timmy, is already creeping the edges of Armie’s mind and heart but stubbornly he vows to make it work, somehow. Timmy is worth the bullshit, just like he’s feared all along.

They rest like that for awhile, both coming around to the idea that day has given way to night and that they’ve spent most of it together, talking, fighting, or making up.

Armie turns his head sideways, flat against the small mound of Timmy’s lower stomach when it growls. He chuckles, listening, and Timmy squirms, pulling him up by the shoulder so that their heads are side by side on his pillow.

“I’m fucking starving.”

“But you already had your protein,” Armie teases, and Timmy boxes his ear with the flat of his palm.

“Fuck off. I need food.”

Armie rolls over to his back and checks the time on his alarm clock, stretching his torso out and cracking his neck in the process. He takes in a deep breath, exhaling slowly

7:43 P.M. He isn’t sure where the time went but when he catches Timmy’s soft and sluggish gaze on him, he decides that maybe he could get used to whittling away time with Timmy

“Everything is going to close soon, except for fast food. What do you want?”

Timmy takes a long moment for contemplation, humming, closing his eyes and roving his tongue over his bottom lip. Armie snorts a soft laugh and steals a kiss just because he can.

“What about In-N-Out?” Timmy grins wickedly. “That’s where we went the first time we hung out. Sort of like an unofficial first date.” He looks pleased with himself.

“Uh,” Armie gapes. “That was _not_ a date.”

Timmy giggles and leans over, nipping an “If you say so,” into his neck. Timmy moves to hover his mouth over Armie’s but a thought passes through his mind and he rejects it.

“Wait, hold up. You’re not like, one of those sentimental people that _remembers shit,_ right?” Armie looks horrified, half-playful, halfway for real.

“What do you mean?” Timmy asks, mouth skirting over his jawline to pepper kisses.

“Like anniversaries. I’m not going to have to remember the date we first kissed or — I don’t know — I fingered your asshole.”

Timmy laughs so hard he sputters saliva over Armie’s neck when he bowls over, hiding his amusement into the dip of Armie’s clavicle. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” Armie persists but he’s laughing now too; the bed shakes with their post-coital snickering.

Timmy settles first, continuing his small mission of covering Armie’s face in little pecks. “You’re the worst,” he breathes out with a smile against Armie’s mouth before finally drawing back and propping his cheek in his palm. “As long as you remember my birthday, we’re good.”

Armie raises an eyebrow. He has no fucking clue when Timmy’s birthday is but he gets an answer before he has to ask.

_December 27th._

Armie balks. “Shit. So I have to get you a Christmas gift _and_ a birthday gift?” He’s mostly joking. “You’re already a pain in my ass, Timothée Chalamet.”

“Fuck you.” They both break into breathy laughter again.

“Remind me to break up with you before then,” Armie deadpans and Timmy slaps him across the chest. He bends forward and rolls his body over on top of Armie’s, takes his face into both hands.

“Break up, huh?” Timmy challenges, his eyes narrowed, defiant. His mouth goes sideways into a mischievous grin that takes up a lot of real estate. Armie is so completely gone for him. “Are you calling me your boooyfriend, Armie Hammer?”

That label still innately scares him, but he can’t run from it anymore. This isn’t someone trying to tie him down. This is Timmy. “We’ll see,” he says noncommittally, and then, “Okay, okay, I guess I am,” when Timmy doesn’t let him off the hook.

They kiss, obnoxiously sweet, Timmy rubbing their noses together, and then Armie gets up.

He snags his pants and walks over to the closet. Timmy is lounging in the blankets, blinking owlishly at him. “Clothes on, pretty boy,” Armie tells him, chucking the wad of his jeans onto the bed. “Let’s get you your stupid fucking In-N-Out.”

Timmy throws both arms up in victory and unearths himself from the warmth to pull on his pants, dropping down onto the hardwood to pad over to Armie at the closet.

“This is going to be big on you,” Armie warns him, unhooking a dark grey sweater from its hanger. Timmy takes it and works it over his hair immediately, beaming once its on, the hem dusting his thighs, his hands drowning in the sleeves.

“It’s perfect,” he announces, collecting his shoes and moving back to the bed to sit and lace them up. He looks over at Armie with a glint in his eye. “Say it again.”

Armie doesn’t even pretend not to know what he’s talking about. “You’re a tyrant,” he laughs, stepping into a dry pair of vans, lifting back his feet one by one to pull them on over his heels.

“You’re dumb,” Timmy crows, stomping over. “It’s still raining. Those are going to get soaked just like the last pair.”

Armie wiggles his toes defiantly and makes no move to change. He seals his big hand around Timmy’s face for a second, pretending to smother him, “You’re dumb,” he retorts, impossibly fond, pushing him back.

They leave his room, Armie spanking Timmy as he goes by, getting a flash of heat for it in his grin, and head for the door.

“We could bring the food over to my place,” Timmy throws out, sealing into his hoodie and overcoat, making it look like Armie is talking to a sentient jacket on the way to the car. “I still have more negatives to enlarge if you want to help. Also, some good weed from my neighbor.”

Armie just looks at him, disgusted with himself for the forest of affection that has sneakily grown out of a desert in the name of this kid. “I love you,” he says freely, helpless to the truth of it, and happy he gets to be the one to say it and have it hit the way it does. Not Ansel. Not Matty.

Timmy stares up at him, weaving their fingers together for a moment before they have to separate to get into the car. He swings the door closed and buckles in then re-laces their hands on top of Armie’s thigh. “So, is that a yes?”

Armie rolls his eyes beseechingly towards the heavens, then looks back to Timmy, smiling, and nods. “Whatever you want.”

Timmy leans over to steal the aux cord, plugging in his phone to take over the radio while Armie starts the car. He raises a conspiratorial eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Armie’s lovesick grin makes the skin around his eyes crinkle. He brings Timmy’s interlocked hand to his mouth to bite dotingly at his knuckles and clicks on the headlights. “Yeah.”

 

The End. 

**-**

**all i do is sit and drink without you**  
**if i choose then i lose**  
**distract my brain from the terrible news**  
**it’s not living if it's not with you**

**Author's Note:**

> we are ohhyellowbird & cumpeachx on tumblr


End file.
